[hazelfoureyes]

I just need you to know this story has had me in a chokehold and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I am enjoying writing it. This is gonna be a weird smutty slow burn, so still smut every post but full p in v sex will be a reward you have to work for?

⟢HumanAlastor x FemaleBurlesquerReader - A Doe in Fall

Part 1 - Pretty in Redsmut💦 Part 2 - Liar smut💦 Part 3 - A Tragedysmut💦 Part 4 - Enough Part 5 - Too Much Part 6 - Learning smut💦

A burlesquer with a penchant for conning men, you find your latest game interrupted when your next mark saves you from an aggressive fan— by killing him. The chance encounter left you curious, still half convinced you could complete your normal chase. Unbeknownst to you, you were the one being tracked.

「warnings/tags: HumanAlastor x FemaleReader, implied attempt to SA, fingering, plot with porn?, Multi part work, bad kind of choking, blood kink, blood licking, just in general blood, Non-Sex repulsed Ace Spectrum Alastor, stalking, murder obvs, finger sucking, smoking kinda kills if you squint, Public sex acts, garter belt, You have a stage name but no one important uses it, Greed, Lust, Human Alastor is a little different than Demon Alastor. 」

minors dni 💅🏽

Part 1 Pretty in Red

The marriage between burlesque and jazz wasn’t unexpected. Before the Great Depression took the nation into a stranglehold, both Jazz and Burlesque were immoral wastes of time only the most barbaric sought out.

And oh, did you love it. Everyone who was made to feel like nobody flocked to your theater and the surrounding neighborhood. Men, women, the people who didn’t agree with either. The biblically inclined, those closer to sodom, the sapphic dolls. Everyone was equal in the halls of jazz rooms and theatres where burlesquers were welcome.

Because of the inclusive nature of such places, you often saw familiar faces. It wouldn’t be unusual for someone from Thursday night to be seen Saturday at a different locale.

That presented certain opportunities and challenges. When you found a good mark, it was easy to be wherever he was and play it off as fate and common interests.

And when you gained a new stalker, someone wanting a personal show, it could be hard to tell until it was too late. 

Maybe it was your greed, or just your love of attention, but you found yourself focused almost entirely on a particularly well dressed man one evening. You’d seen him around before. Clean cut, sharp suit, a welcoming smile always on display. He looked like he had money, the most attractive quality of any man you could meet.

So focused on his gleaming stare from the side booths you hadn’t noticed the man at the stage front tables. You barely noticed him the night before, or the night before that, either. Because Smiles, as you took to calling the handsome stranger in the back, had been here three nights now too.

You really put on a show. Shimmying your hips, ostrich feathers following suit with every move. Your brassiere was heavy with shining rhinestones, panties of silk and lace. Your set was almost done, all that was left was to remove your top and slink away behind the curtains to hollers and whistles. Back turned, you unhooked the painful bra and let it fall to the stage with a clunk. Foot in front of foot, you stalked the stage length. With your hand hidden from view you took the feathered fan from the stagehand behind the curtain. As the music crescendoed you turned, fan unfurling just in time to hide yourself.

Groans, mass begging from the audience. Your stage name a chant now, a prayer. “Autumn! Come on!”

As the band slowed, music dying to mark the end of your number, you scanned the crowd. Eyes blinking coyly, you mouthed, “More? Did you want more?”

People were jumping to their feet, not Smiles but that was fine, you were focused now on the adoration of the crowd. The music ended, a second of silence. 

You winked, the drums hitting one last beat as you let the fan close.

Fanfare! Men whistling, women clapping. Someone shouted a marriage proposal. You took a bow, twirled on the balls of your feet and slipped gracefully behind the curtains.

Your hands wound to your spine, rubbing blood flow back into your skin as the staff removed your headdress. Someone slipped your robe over you and you nodded a thanks, aching feet carrying you to the dressing room. It was chaos, as usual. Women buzzing around, tits and ass here and there. You smiled. You happened to enjoy this part of the job. Soft bodies in shiny costumes, lovely smells and sweet voices. If you could get dressed quickly enough, you could still take a tour of the room and slide into Smiles’ booth. 

“Enjoy the show?” You’d ask. He’d lean in, maybe blush, “Always when you’re here.” Or something like that. You’d cozy up to him, flag down a waiter for something strong and pricey, and get him properly drunk. He’d wake up outside, fine and dandy except his missing cash. 

You’ll call him a drunkard if he confronts you, accuse him of getting himself robbed after you refused his advances. You’ll say it too loudly, and he’ll run off. 

You danced a little in your seat, another game of cat and mouse about to commence. But first, a smoke.

Unbeknownst to you, the well dressed man hadn’t come to see you. He preferred your singing shows at the little dive bar two blocks over. No, he had come for the man at the front table. For weeks now, he had watched him harassing the ladies of the few joints in New Orleans that weren’t regularly hounded by police. Your smiley mark even heard stories of unsavory acts, many women leaving the dance scene entirely after.

He didn’t care for it. He didn’t care for him. So he took to his hunt, following the man to come to his own conclusions. The pattern of behavior was obvious, and though he hadn’t seen what ended the last obsession, it was clear one of the performers at this club was being stalked as the next victim. 

He watched your dance with half lidded eyes, just as much as he watched the man give dirty looks to the other men cheering. Heard the, “Marry me!” shouted at you.

Yes, it was obvious to him now. 

So when the target of his interest got up and pushed his way into a staff only door, well, the well dressed man was sure to follow. 

The great thing about confidence and a nicely tailored suit is that no one questions you about why you are where you are. So while the brute he tailed had to shove past people to get wherever he was going, people smiled and made room for the gentleman who was not far behind.

He caught the street access door before it closed, allowing it to stay open just a sliver. Enough for one golden brown eye to watch the events unfold.

“Can I have a light?” The stranger asked you. You looked at him, then to the staff only entrance he just came out of. 

“I don’t think I know you….,” you handed him the lighter but he instead leaned into you, cigarette hanging from his lips. “You… new?”

You sparked the flint with a practiced thumb, taking three tries to get it lit, and put your hand out. The man didn’t budge, eyebrows rising, “You really don’t recognize me?” He asked, motioning with his hand to come closer. Your eyes glanced down the alley, cars slowly moving past the street. When you looked back, the man took your wrist in his hand. He held you so tightly that the muscles in your palm locked and you dropped the lighter. 

“What the fu-,” his hand came across your face, halting your sentence.

“I’m your best customer. Every show. I’m the one who brings flowers.”

Dozens of men bring flowers, especially on the weekend shows. You held your cheek, skin burning. Your hand pulled back, the corner of your lip bleeding from his rings. Scrambling, your mind was searching for the right words.

With a forced smiled, your shaky voice finally piped up, “Oh! Yeah! Oh geez. I am so sorry, doll. I’m just so tired, and the alley is so dark. Here, let’s go inside so I can get a better look at you.” You tried to take your wrist from him but he didn’t loosen up.

“Nah, you ain’t tricking me. You owe me.” He pulled you into him, large hand gripping your face with ease, “You can’t lead on men like this and think you don’t gotta answer for it.” He kissed you, forcing your face into his. “Bitch! Did you fucking bite me?” He threw you into the tin trash cans beside the wall, knocking the wind out of you. 

No purse, no sharp object, not even a heeled shoe to defend yourself with. You cursed, so preoccupied with Smiles you forgot your wits.

You spit out the copper saliva, his blood and yours. “I’ll keep biting, too.” 

Why scream? The sounds of the next act were bouncing off the brick walls. Upbeat jazz and applause echoing around you. No one would hear you. Men can break your body but you never had to give them your dignity. Never give them the satisfaction of a response.

No. No screaming. You instead spent your energy trying to get to your feet. He took hold of your neck now, throttling you. It wasn’t what you had expected, but as he lifted you off the ground and your little dressing room slippers fell off, you thought this was actually better. 

“Well I think that’s quite enough.”

You felt warmth, then registered wetness. Your shin scraped on the asphalt as you were dropped without warning. Trying to open your eyes, you found you couldn’t see. Wiping and blinking away the foreign liquid, you watched your attacker fall to his knees.

Blood was shooting from between his fingers around his own neck, each pulse becoming weaker and weaker, evident through the stream.

When he finally fell over, drained, you were startled to see another man with you. The light reflected off his glasses as he adjusted them, the knife still in his right hand as he did so. 

“My, my. What a mess he’s made.” The man smiled down at you, offering a hand. When you didn’t immediately react, he cocked his head to the left, “Is that anyway to treat your rescuer?”

Is that was this was? A rescue? You took his hand with both of yours, pulling yourself up. 

Smiles? You blinked away the shock, time to shift into your next part. Damsel. You weren’t out the woods yet.

“You saved my life!” As you pressed yourself into his chest, you tucked your head beneath his chin. You tried to make yourself small. “I owe you! Please let’s go inside, drinks on me!” You looked up, batting your lashes.

“I don’t think that’s wise, dear.” His gaze panned down your dress, soaked through. He could see the thinking behind your eyes.

“No, right….,” You gripped his vest, “We gotta get outta here, fast. There’s a hotel just behind the threatre.” You started to pull his suit jacket off, slipping it over yourself. “No cops, the theatre will get raided. Just— take me somewhere safe?”

You watched him look you over, arm finally extending to let you hook yours with his. 

As soon as the hotel door closed behind you, you slipped off his jacket and ran to the dressing table mirror. 

Your face was painted red, navy dress now black and sticky. It was good you stayed from view of the reception staff. “I didn’t get my rescuer’s name,” you licked your thumb and rubbed at the blood around your cheeks. 

“Alastor. It’s a pleasure.”

You laughed, “Is that what you call a pleasure?” Turning, you pulled the mostly still dry handkerchief from your pocket and dabbed the corner on your tongue. You brought it up to the frame of his glasses and wiped the blood from the metal. “I’d hate to see what you call a bad time.”

Your hand slowed, noticing the way he was looking at you. Typically men’s pupils were blown when they fell on you, but his were constricted. They flitted around your face. His hand took hold of yours, fingers separating the thumb from the handkerchief. He pulled the little square of yellow fabric free with his other hand, allowing him to hold your thumb now by itself.

His lips opened, tongue licking the blood stained finger before placing it directly into his mouth.

Your stared, horrified, as he sucked the digit clean. 

His eyes fluttered close, finger popping out of his mouth with a debauched sound. You made no attempt to take back your hand. The realization you may have hopped out of the frying pan and into the fire set in.

“You are a funny one, aren’t you?” You tried to sound as in control as possible. Calm. Unwavered. Offered a timid smile. 

He chuckled, “You could say that. May I?” His fingers lifted your chin. You didn’t know what he was asking. His soft smile looked downright loving. He smelled so good, notes of something earthy rising above the copper.

You nodded, because part of you wanted to see where it would go. And part of you thought you didn’t have a choice.

As his face came to yours, you instinctually closed your eyes expecting a kiss. But no, instead you felt his tongue wipe across the cut at the corner of your mouth. His breath blanketed your cheek. Then his hand left your chin, the warmth of his body gone entirely. 

You opened your eyes to see him at the door, slipping back into his jacket, “I’ll pay for the night.” He tipped his head to you and exited the room back first, eyes locked with yours until the door closed.

You just stood there in the silence left behind. But as if on cue, the adrenaline waned and your knees buckled under you. You were moments from death, now somehow spared. But what had he— Alastor, been doing there? Did he follow you, too? The cat and mouse had been flipped, or perhaps now this was a fox and hound?

Gripping the dressing table, you pulled yourself up and into the view of the mirror again. Face streaked in dried blood save for the one clean spot where your lips met cheek. 

You felt like a ghost the next day. It would be nice to tell someone about what happened but, “Hey a man tried to kill me and then another man killed him! Then he licked blood off my face and I let him. It was the most disturbingly erotic thing to happen to me in months!” would get you tossed into a wagon. 

“Are you rude or just stupid?” The theatre manager pulled you aside by the arm when you came into rehearsal. “You can’t just disappear like that, people were waiting.”

Your eyes narrowed, “Was… my absence really the most exciting part of the evening? Not the John in the gutter?”

He huffed, “So that’s it? Got a beau?”

“Wait— nothing else happened last night? After I left?” 

“This show doesn’t revolve around you. Plenty happened.”

“Excuse me,” you hurried into the back, “And sorry!”

You opened the street access door and looked into the alley. Trash cans neat and tidy, no dead man, nothing strange or telltale.

You ducked back inside. Had Smiles done this? Obviously, actually. No stranger just cleaned up the dead body. If the flatfeet had found him, the club would have been under scrutiny.

Good, you thought, and went about your work.

Rehearsal dragged on. Little details summoning you back to the night before. 

“You okay?” Another performer asked, grabbing your hand and inspecting the blood around your cuticles.

“Oh it’s not mine!” You laughed, she laughed, you walked off before she could clarify.

When applying your makeup, you remembered his hands on your face. They were so soft. Definitely a man of means. A brief intrusive thought, the other hands on your face last night.

You pranced on stage, going through the motions of your routine. Even in the empty hall, your eyes wandered to the booth he’d been in. And as you took the stage in earnest later that night you searched the crowd for the glint of his glasses and found nothing shiny nor promising.

Back in the dressing room you took a moment to wonder what the actual fuck you we’re doing. He murdered a man in front of you, why were you hoping to see him again? He had half a mind to kill you next.

But would that really be so bad?  Your life was routine, boring even. The only thing keeping your lungs expanding was the applause. Maybe the headlines of your death would cause such an uproar, dancer struck down in her prime, that you could bask in the loving glow all the way from hell.

One way to remain famous, you considered. A dramatic death.

Not that you were famous. You weren’t part of the national circuits. Just your local theatres, a common face and body to the sinners of Louisiana’s most infamous city. But, well, fame is relative. For the scene you were in, you were your own little star. 

A shining light. Shimmering. The faint light reflecting off— Blood. For a second you could only remember looking through bloodied, heavy lashes. 

“You’ve been so out of it. Trouble in paradise?” Ruth, the curviest of your coworkers and arguably the favorite of the crew, rested her chin on your head. Looking at each other in the mirror, you offered a soft smile.

“I’ll letcha know when I get there.”

She pinched your cheek, “Tommy said you had a new guy. I just figured-,”

“That isn’t,” you clenched your eyes shut, “no, no guy. I just got locked out last night in the alley. The sticky-,” sticky and viscous blood, “back door wouldn’t open up. I didn’t want to come in the front in my slippers so I just hoofed it home.” 

She patted your head, “if you say so! Be careful out there though. Dangerous these days.” 

An understatement.

You enjoyed the spotlight, but more than that you craved the attention doted on you after. You’d walk through the hall to the bar to adoring looks and free drinks. It bothered you that Tommy was telling the girls you had a man. You didn’t want to appear too closed off, or for word to spread to the customers. 

Last thing you needed was men passing you by for more available options. Not that the pay wasn’t fine. Ends were being met, but grifting added an element of thrill. You really did love the chase. Finding someone and deciding he would be yours, he would fall under your spell and be at your feminine mercy. It made you feel powerful, almost mythical. And the money was nice. Sometimes you didn’t even need to steal, the men would just lavish you in gifts and you’d let it fizzle out naturally. Normally their wives would snatch them back or they’d just get tired of waiting for you to leave the stage and dance into their domestic dreams. A housewife? An adopted mother to a grown man during the day, a hungry nymph at night? For what, an allowance and a home you didn’t own? Pass. Where’s that handsome man with his knife? That was a much better steel to fall onto than what these men offered from their laps.

From your view at the bar you knew he wasn’t there. But with a nod you decided the chase was still on. You were going to get your victory. If anything, this would be easier. You had dirt on him. Blackmail would be simple enough. Bloody clothes and the perfect alibi; being a woman. No cop would think you took down that hulking man. 

Ah, right. There was no body.

That would be an issue. He had to have taken it somewhere. Just find him and follow. Worst case scenario, you play the usual game and steal whatever cash was in his wallet.

Well, worst case you die. 

You slept sitting up to keep your hair set, during the day your makeup barely was there but a red lip always the star. You had three nice dresses (well, you had had four) so you figured three nights to find him before moving on.

You slinked through the crowds of the hot and sweaty dance club Moxie. Swinging music kept bodies moving, and though you kept your eyes open you didn’t catch sight of this Alastor fellow. Which was fine! You enjoyed a few dances, swing always making you feel energized. Not a waste of a Friday night.

Saturday was easy, the lounge on fifth. Smooth jazz, plush chairs, rich men. Definitely a place you could imagine Smiles to frequent. The whisky was all top shelf, and many gentlemen offered you a lap to sit. Sure, no Alastor, but you didn’t go home empty handed.

You weren’t a particularly great singer, but if the room was small enough and the piano loud enough, you could please a crowd. Your friend had you on a semi-set schedule most Sundays at her little dive too many blocks from Main Street. Her darling played piano, you sat and sang to the couple dozen patrons stuffed into the one room bar. When you finished your set, you took your bows and looked for your friend. You needed to tell her you wouldn’t be staying. 

Your polite nods and gracious thank yous were abruptly ended by a tap on your shoulder, “You dropped this, miss.” You did a mental check of your purse before turning around.

“Oh, a sight for sore eyes. Mr. Alastor.” Your face lit up, you could see it in his glasses.

“You’re too kind. Here, I apologize for the delay. I wanted to return them clean.” In his hand was your yellow handkerchief, folded neatly. You took it and found it uncharacteristically heavy. 

When you unfurled it, your brass lighter fell into your waiting palm. Your thumb caressed the engraving. 

Alastor watched your face as the lighter tumbled out. “I figured it was important, given the condition and detailing.”

You tested the weight in your hand, “Did you fill it?” You looked to him incredulously.  He nodded.

It was a surprisingly kind act, and you needed a second to regain your composure. “I don’t know how to thank you.” Your quick wit failed for a moment, but rebounded fast. “Except with a drink. My treat. To my rescuer.”

He mulled the idea, your reaction to him was interesting. Alastor had thought if he approached you first you’d show a little more fear, or shock. But you looked downright chipper to see him there. 

“Unfortunately I don’t have much time tonight. I had just wanted to return your items.”

Your smile dropped. How did he know you were here? Had he been carrying— no, he said he had them cleaned. Had he seen you here before, before the incident? A chuckle, smile brought back, “My luck is terrible. You always flee me. I hope you don’t see my company as deadweight.”

Alastor’s smile twitched, eyes hidden behind the glare of his glasses, “Not at all! I think you’d find I’m quite comfortable with-.”

“Lugging people around?” You said. That constricted pupil again, eyes wild. A chill ran down your spine. Alarms were going off. Wrong answer. You straightened your back, popping the items into your purse, “Next time.”

Alastor nodded, “Yes. Next time, then.”

You fucked it up. You knew you had, but suddenly his words felt like a thinly veiled threat. 

You turned to leave and hadn’t seen his smile sour.

It hadn’t been a threat. He hadn’t anticipated you to notice the implication. Most people would have been so blinded by his charm they would fail to notice the glaring red flags. He was mildly impressed. You would be more trouble than he had expected.

Alastor knew he needed to do something about the clearly clever woman who was seemingly expecting him. He had followed you for several days, surprised to find you not spreading word about the murder. You hadn’t spoken to anyone, really. Even the man you left the lounge with, you just smiled and nodded nearly all evening while the man dominated the conversation. So, your sharp wit took him off guard. Who were you pretending to be? And why?

All of your cleverness fell apart when you tried to follow him. It was almost comical. He felt bad. This was going to be embarrassing for you.

He took several right turns and stepped into the park just outside of the bar. You thought perhaps he had gotten lost and considered turning around after you realized you’d lost sight of him. As you passed a large weeping willow, you were pulled under the curtains of hanging moss by your waist.

Back against the large tree, you could only pout.

“What are you after, stalking a man in the dead of night?” Alastor had you pinned, both hands on either side of your head. His body boxed you in, not that there was much more to see than moss and darkness.

You blinked several times. What a question. You answered honestly, “You.” He cocked a brow. Then you lied, “Your affection. Your time.”

Something akin to a giggle bubbled from his chest. “I don’t have much affection, but I have even less time.” Your eyes darted around, looking for your next move. “I-,” you grabbed him by the face and kissed him. When you broke the kiss he was staring wide eyed, glasses askew. He opened his mouth to speak and you kissed him again, longer, harder.

He seemed frozen under your mouth, lips taut. Your hands roamed his face, messing up his hair and glasses. Mind reeling. Play the nymph. Be the whore the men always said they hated. Be too strong, too forward, too much and he’ll run off like men do. You could try again another day.

Your hand reached for his lap, his hips instinctively jerking away. Perfect. Men these days can’t get it up for a woman who takes the lead. 

Alastor was entirely unsure what the fuck was happening. You were wildly unpredictable. When you grabbed at his dick, he thought his eyes would cross from the shock. Is this what ‘affection’ meant to you? He couldn’t understand it. Couldn’t understand you. Were you really just lustful? Even after what you’d seen him—

You bit at his bottom lip, pulling slightly. Big eyes looking back at him. Your breath was already running away from you, adrenaline seemingly synonymous with Alastor. Staring up at him, you waited. His move.

It was his turn to blink. He looked off to his left, eyes swinging back to you. With a shrug, he leaned his body back towards yours. His hand slid down the front of your dress; red silk. A deer in the headlights, you tensed. The rare third option; fight, flight, freeze. Soon his fingers were tracing the lace of your stockings, climbing up the garter straps. 

His eyes were studying your face. You didn’t want to give the wrong answer again, but at this point you weren’t sure any answer was right. This was taking a sudden turn and your foot was off the brake. You closed your eyes, opting out of the scrutiny of his stare. His hand met your stomach and began to slip down again. He rested it between your thighs, longer fingers and palm cupping the entirety of your sex.

Alastor struggled to decipher your expression. It was almost like a pout, but more subtle. You hadn’t said stop or pushed him away yet. Was he right? You were just… horny? As his hand slid back up and pried their way into your panties, you trembled.

It had been so long since someone else’s hand was on you. Someone whose hands you genuinely enjoyed, who you wanted to be on you.

Is that right? You wanted him to touch you? 

Maybe it was the stare, or the smile. Probably just the adrenaline.

His hand found its place again, middle finger bending to part your folds and feel your wetness. You whimpered, hand coming to cover your own mouth. 

“Is this what you wanted?” He said it low, a husky tone he didn’t have before.

No. Maybe. You nodded yes.

“Will you be satisfied now? No more tailing me?”

No. Probably not. Another nod.

His finger pushed in, and with a kind of greed you didn't recognize your hips ground down into his palm. He slipped in and out of you with ease. You had no idea when or why you got so wet.

“I always end up dripping around you, Alastor,” you whispered through your fingers. His ring finger joined. Why couldn’t you shut up? Why did you have to bring up, well, the murder?

“A common problem for those I take an interest in.” 

Oh no. You moaned softly into your hand. Sharp mind made dull by his fingers so you didn’t, couldn’t, process his double meaning. 

Oh no. The sounds of footsteps, a pair of lovers sneaking into the park for privacy. You heard their giggles, the sounds of kisses interrupting their walking.

“Shhh”, he breathed into your ear as he worked a third finger into your heat. One knuckle, two knuckles. A whimper. His hand came to press down over your own on your mouth, a second barrier for your mewling. You groaned, the sound coming from your throat.  

Whispers. The silhouette of the two interlopers was visible through the willow’s curtains. You watched from over his shoulder, pussy clenching around him. Three knuckles deep, bottoming out.

Fuck it. You moaned freely into your hand, wiggling down onto his hand. Hips rolling, you let your little sounds of praise flow.

The couple laughed, “That’s the spirit!” A man said, a woman hushing him and pulling him away.

Alastor grinned into your neck, immensely amused. He would have better luck predicting a dice roll than your next move. 

You hadn’t realized how hollow you’d been until now, feeling so full. When alone, you focused on just cumming, fingers on your clit and mind on memories. You never bothered much with anything else.

Your hunger intensified. You wanted more. Both hands reached for his crotch again, finding nothing there for you. You could have cried. How were you a wet mess pressed against a tree and he was soft as a newspaper in a rainstorm?

Your pride stung. Men usually stood at attention around you. A half sob into the air earned you a chuckle from Alastor. “It’s no reflection of you, darling.” His nose nudged your ear lobe, “I need a little different stimulation than most.”

“Do you play for the other team?” You considered how you could momentarily switch. 

A louder laugh, “I don’t have a team.” He leaned back now to look at you. His freehand came to press on your lower stomach, gently pushing your womb down. Your brows knit, why did that feel so good? Hands going to the tree behind you for stability.

“Sure feels like you know how to play. This is-,” his hand switched from thrusting slowly in and out to moving front and back. It sent vibrations up into you. Your eyes rolled close. Shut up. Stop talking. Focus. Close.

He kissed around your open mouth, “Well, it’d be unamerican to not dabble. When necessary, or when the conditions are right.”

Double speak over, “Just tell me what to do to get you to fuck me.”

Alastor’s head fell back as he laughed earnestly, most likely alerting anyone in the immediate area. “Ha! No, this is more fun.”

“Oh fuck you,” you brought a hand around to your throbbing clit to quicken your release.

“Maybe next time, dear.” He took a second, fingers in you sliding around your walls in search of something before finding his place and continuing. Your breath noticeably changed, instead of panting you were practically holding it in. You needed the pressure, you needed something to squeeze that spring of pleasure down so it could snap back. As your face went flush, he kissed at your temple, “You look so pretty in red.”

“Oh god-,” Your head fell onto his chest, your joint effort bringing you to orgasm. 

“A little late on Sunday for prayers, don't you think?”

A tiny scream into his suit pocket, his hand not stopping until your thighs finished twitching around him. Even after his hand stopped moving you gripped him by the wrist and rolled onto his fingers a few more times. The pleasure ebbing but still spiking every time he moved against you. 

Ah, greed. That was it. He understood a little better. This wasn’t lust, not alone.  You were definitely a mix of the two. With a sigh, you released your hold and let him slide out of you. Already you felt lonelier. Already you wished to start over.

With his dry hand he smoothed out your dress. You weren’t ashamed but you suddenly felt too embarrassed to look him the eye. But you did, hearing him hum as he sucked his fingers clean. 

Why were you only ever in his mouth in the strangest ways?

“You always taste so sweet, dear. Now!” You wanted to say something clever and salacious like, ‘there’s more where that came from’ but he didn’t afford you the opportunity. He offered you his hooked arm, “It’s dangerous in the park at night. Let’s get you to a cab and on your way home.”

“Is this a hobby of yours?” Your legs were wobbly but otherwise fine. “Illegal activities in public?”

“Funny, I was just wondering the same of you. Stalking is a crime, dear.”

You bit your lip. “Touché.”

He flagged down a taxi, “Tell him where to go.” You slid into the back seat and half-whispered to the driver. Alastor leaned into the passenger side front window and after paying the man, went to close your door, “You’ve been an entertaining sparring partner. Goodbye, sweetheart.”

With a thud of the door and a growl of the engine, you were driving away from him. You could see him in the rear window. He didn’t dare to move, he didn’t need you following another step of his.

Which was unfortunate for him, as you were already scheming how to find him again.

༻Masterlist༺

∰ Summoning the Horny Little Deer Cult (general tag list):

@cxrsedwxrlds , @nonetheartist , @tsunaki , @janchei , @wettiny-in-smutland , @moonmark98 , @hoebihoeshi , @pansexual-opera-house , @polytheatrix , @lorddiabigmommymilkers , @backinthefkingbuildingagain , @harley2223-blog , @coffee-colored-hopeless-romantic , @poinappel , @midnightnoiserose , @spookieroz , @missmidorima , @ivebeenthearchersstuff , @downbadforfictionalppl , @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx , @sleepylittledemon , @aether-th3-enby , @dontfuckbutimfab , @breathlessaura , @aperfectidiot , @certainlygay , @jth12 , @star-kujo-platinum ,

@ivebeenthearchersstuffn, @rubyninja1 , @simphornies , @alleystore , @readergirlstuff , @berry-demon , @chirimeimei , @fairyv-ice , @olive-frog , @thonethatflies620 , @tiredkiwiii , @ilikemyteawithmilk , @whateverlololo , @psipies , @howabouticallyou , @roxxie-wolf , @ive-no-idea-what-to-call-this , @fizzled-phoenix , @fjorjestertealeaf , @phobophobular , @surusurusuru , @mariaclarade-la-cruz1 , @whateverlololo , @simplyonehellofanotaku , @xixflower , @i-am-nonbinary-bean-deal-with-it , @roxxie-wolf , @a-case-of-attachment , @multifandomfanatic02 , @watereddownmilk , @raynerrold , @crazii-saber-wolf , @valkyrie-expeditions , @bontensbabygirl , @sillyb0nez , @oo0lady-mad0oo , @jazzmasternot , @pseudobun , @fraugwinska✨, @alitaar , @angelicwillows

🏹Alastor stalkers: @celestial-vomit , @amurtan ,@valkyrie-expeditions

[blindmagdalena]

Eat Your Ego, Honey (CH3)

homelander x oc 18+  escort services, sex work, voyeurism, stalking, Homelander in general. see ao3 link for detailed tags. see pinned post for chapter index. check out the playlist!

That night, Homelander returns to Layla’s condo. It’s later in the evening, giving him the freedom to perch on a building across from hers, his telescopic vision honing slowly in on her quaintly furnished home. Slipping his gloves off one at a time, Homelander sets them aside. He settles his hands in his lap, and absently grinds his thumb into his palm, clumsily mimicking the way Layla had so deftly done it.

It feels… like nothing.

Despite his superior strength, the roll of his thumb is nothing compared to her touch. When she had done it, it had felt as though there were currents passing between their hands, electricity coursing freely. Now, attempting to recreate the sensation feels like trying to tickle himself. It’s an empty feeling, nothing but the pressure of skin against skin.

Homelander’s focus is broken by movement– her front door opens, and Layla steps in, looking day-weary, but relieved.  Her shoulders sink out of that perfect posture she maintains for the world, and she kicks her shoes haphazardly towards the closet door, not bothering to put them away. The contrast of her home routine compared to last night’s is so radically different, Homelander has to wonder if she’s not accustomed to being put off her schedule. Had she made an exception, scheduling him so late in the evening? The thought has a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

That wouldn’t be the only exception she made for him today.

Bringing himself back to the present, Homelander watches Layla take her bag to her office, depositing it on her desk before making her way to her bedroom. The way she carries herself when she’s at home, when it’s just the two of them as watcher and watched, is different from the calculated persona she maintains during their sessions. Her body is no longer strung tight by the strings of performance. He’s free to observe her now and see her as none of her clients could hope to.

Clients.

Homelander runs his tongue absently along his teeth. He’s had whores before. Empty, wet holes that were warm enough, but not much more. Sometimes it beat using his fist. Other times the mess was hardly worth the effort. He’s fucked starstruck fans, women who wanted him, and some that didn’t. Every single time, he felt as though he was digging into them, seeking something lurking beneath their skin that if he could just dig deep enough, he could rip out something that would let him fucking feel.

Something Layla is inexplicably adept at evoking with a simple touch.

Continuing to massage his hand, Homelander hones back in, watching Layla pull an oversized sleep shirt from her dresser. She must be in the mood for something cozier than the silky night slip she wore the night before. Homelander is mildly disappointed in the choice, but that falls away immediately as she begins to undress. She pulls off her sweater and camisole in one fell swoop, revealing a cottony white bra, delicately embroidered with pastel floral designs up the cups. Her panties match. He can already imagine how the raised fabric would feel against his tongue.

She must not be in the mood to put on a show tonight, because she puts her sleep shirt on far too quickly. Homelander much prefers when she’s not in such a rush to get comfortable, when she takes her time peeling away the layers of her day. He thinks again about the bath she took the other night, how she’d so clearly brought him home with her. He wants that. He wants proof that she’s still thinking about the smell of him on her skin, the warmth of his body against hers. He wants to see her yearning for him in his absence, so obviously pretending that her hands on her body are his.

Meanwhile, Layla slips out of her underwear, tossing it into a nearby laundry bin. Homelander chuckles to himself. She must have soaked through them after the way he was grinding against her. He could smell her arousal, feel it in the throb of her body. She barely held herself together, clinging desperately to her silly little rules.

Homelander watches Layla pull on a new pair of plain black panties–a shame, he likes it when they match–and walk from her bedroom to her kitchen, where she pours herself an awfully tall glass of red wine. She takes it to the couch, settling down with her feet propped up on the coffee table.

He believes for a moment that she’s settling in to watch some television, a boring activity he would be content to leave her to until he returns, but instead she lifts up her cellphone, bringing it to her ear. Homelander cocks his head, listening to it ring alongside her.

“Hey, babe,” greets a male voice on the other end of the line. Homelander feels himself bristle, his jaw tightening. “Let me guess. Calling to cancel on me again?” This stranger goes on, eliciting a smile from Layla that’s so wholly at ease, so casually endeared, it makes Homelander’s skin crawl. The phone call feels like an intrusion on their time together, this man’s voice grating in Homelander’s ears.

“No, no, we’re still on for tomorrow,” Layla assures him, taking a sip of her wine. A date? The notion sets Homelander’s teeth on edge. Is this a boyfriend? Homelander scoffs to himself. Not for long. “I just… need to talk to you,” she continues, swirling her drink contemplatively.

Homelander pauses the grinding of his teeth. Nothing good ever comes from an I need to talk to you . He huffs softly. Has he already convinced her she needs to break up with this loser?

“Something that couldn’t wait until tomorrow?” the man asks.

Layla makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “Not if I plan on sleeping tonight.”

“Woof, that bad? Alright, I’m sat. Hit me.”

After taking a preparatory swig of her wine, Layla exhales a slow deep breath. “I have this new client.” Homelander’s lips part. She’s talking about work? About him? The corners of his mouth twitch. The back and forth would give most people whiplash.

“And I let them cross some boundaries today,” she says, sounding more sheepish than he’s used to hearing her. Homelander wonders crossly if she’s about to apologize to this man, shamefully admit to him the way she had stroked Homelander into blissful oblivion, confess to him how thoroughly it turned her on. He shakes his head, listening intently, before he drives himself insane speculating.

“You let them cross boundaries, or you crossed boundaries?”

Layla looks disarmed by the question, but simultaneously like she had been expecting it. She pushes a hand into her hair, resting against her palm with her elbow propped on the couch. “Both.”

“Okay. Why did you do that?” He sounds patient, a touch curious. Not the response Homelander anticipated. Where’s his sense of fucking pride? He must be some kind of cuck, getting off on the thought of another man pleasing his woman. Layla’s lucky that Homelander discovered her.

“Because…” Homelander leans forward, anticipating her answer. Layla chews her lip briefly. “I wanted to.”

Homelander smirks at that, but the judgmental hum that comes from the man on the phone grates in his ears. “Layla,” he says simply, though there is weight in it.

“They’re different from my usual clientele,” she says with a sigh, sitting up to take another sip from her wine. Homelander knows that she’s tongue-tied on the specifics by a myriad of Vought specific NDA’s, but perhaps she’s always this vague. He lingers on that word; different. “Different from… anyone I’ve ever met, honestly.”

Homelander’s lips split into a broad, preening grin. I told you. You’ll never meet another me.

“They just have this intensity to them, it’s hard to put it into words,” she says, sounding frustrated with herself as she swirls her drink. “And this wouldn’t really be a problem if not for the fact they keep booking domestic. The first session we were testing the waters, sure. The second time, today, they pushed, I slipped. Now they’ve booked it again. Instead of being upfront and honest about what they really want, they’re establishing boundaries with the clear intention of breaking them. So, naturally I… should stop working with them,” she says, though the inflection of her voice makes it sound more like a question than a statement.

“You should stop working with them,” the voice on the phone confirms. Homelander viscerally envisions caving in this faceless man’s windpipe.

Layla’s nose scrunches. It’s endearing enough that Homelander loses track of the flash murderous impulse. He watches as she chews at her thumb nail, the conflict written in every inch of her body language. “After I talk to them about it.”

“It doesn’t sound to me like you want to work with them, Layla,” the man says. Shut up, Homelander wants to snap. He’s trying to talk her out of it. He’s– “Sounds to me like you want to date them.”

That gives Homelander pause. Well, the man has one good point.

“You’re not helping me,” Layla groans, finishing her glass of wine before sinking deeper into the couch. She doesn’t even try to deny it. Instead, she absently touches the bruise he’d sucked at her neck Homelander grins, feeling distinctly triumphant.

“I am, babe. It’s just not what you wanted to hear.”

Layla relaxes down onto her back, stretching out on the couch. Homelander tracks the way her sleep shirt slides tantalizingly up her thighs. “Marriage changed you,” she laments half-heartedly. Homelander quirks a brow, his figurative hackles lowering. “You’ve been domesticated.”

The man laughs gently. “Jealous?”

“Don’t be mean,” Layla scolds, smiling bittersweetly. Homelander takes note of that. “How is Jason?”

“He’s good, he’s good. Our 10th anniversary is coming up, you know. We’re thinking Italy.”

Oh. Homelander relaxes the rest of the way. A homosexual.

“Ten years?” Layla echoes, awed. “Time really does fly.” Her cheeks have turned a ruddy color from the wine. She rubs at her eye, smudging the makeup she’s forgotten she hasn’t washed away yet. Homelander finds it charming, intimate even. He likes the look of her when she’s put together, polished to a shine for the eyes of the world, but he likes this, too. What she sells is an excellent fantasy, but this is true domesticity.

The pair chat for a while longer, reminiscing on a friendship that spans all the way back to their high school years. Through this conversation, Homelander gleans that Layla, for all her beauty and charm, is deceptively introverted. Isolated, even. This man, Chris, appears to be the only other person in the world who actually knows her.

He was, anyway.

Are the intimate fantasies of love as much for Layla as they are for her clients? Homelander’s gaze drifts about her apartment as he zones in and out of the conversation she’s having. No pets. On the walls there are only a handful of framed photos. Graduation pictures dated over twenty years ago catch his eye; a young Layla fresh out of school, linking arms with a man and a woman he presumes to be her parents. They look to have been older even then. He doubts they’re still alive.

She’s lonely.

Homelander’s knee bounces impatiently. As insightful as this conversation has been, Chris is beginning to overstay his welcome. He came here to see Layla, and the man’s voice is grinding on his nerves. Luckily, it’s not much longer until Layla begins her goodbye. Fucking finally.

With her call over and her wine glass empty, Layla washes up for bed, wasting little time with it. Homelander picks up his gloves, tugging them back on, and slips off of the ledge he was sitting on, drifting towards her balcony. She’s left it open tonight, welcoming in the cool breeze on this balmy late July evening. It’s practically an invitation. Gently, Homelander swings the door open just enough to step through, cocking his head slightly as he makes his way towards Layla’s bed.

He already knows she’s sound asleep by the rhythm of her breaths. They’re deeper tonight, carrying a soft little snore. The wine has thoroughly sedated her. He tsks quietly when he sees her phone on her nightstand lying adjacent to the charging cable, unplugged, and chuckles to himself. He picks up the phone, reading the notifications that the screen lights up with. No text messages, just a couple of emails. He hasn’t figured out her password yet, so for now, he simply plugs in the device and sets it back down on her nightstand.

Honestly, what would she do without him?

Turning his attention to her, he gives her a once over. Her bed is much too large for her. She looks small in it, even as sprawled out as she is. Was she expecting to be sharing it when she bought it? There’s even a pillow next to hers. Layla’s entire life feels like it has been carved around some missing piece. Something, or someone, that she’s been waiting for to step in and fill the void.

Homelander knows the feeling.

Reaching out, he brushes his gloved fingertips along her bare shoulder. Even in her sleep, goosebumps rise at his touch, though she does not stir. His gaze flickers over to the empty expanse of her bed. He feels a rush of irritation prickling hot on his skin, all the way up his spine. It’s abysmally obvious that he should be laying there.

From the moment he saw her, he knew that she was living a lie, one not so unlike his. Now he sees her truth. She doesn’t just want him; she needs him.

Now he only needs to show her that he will have her.

Out of the corner of his eye, Homelander spots a familiar flash of fabric. After a brief hesitation, he moves from Layla’s bedside, making his way towards the distraction. Layla’s panties, with that floral embellishment curved elegantly along the hem, hang precariously from a dark wood laundry basket. His mouth dries slightly. Delicately, he slips his index finger under the waistband, lifting them up to examine.

Layla obviously enjoys luxury. Everything she wears is of exquisite quality. Since he can’t find signs of a tag, it's likely they’re handmade.

Lifting them closer to his face, lips parted, he inhales gently, and instantly he’s struck to the core by the lingering smell of her arousal. He’s transported viscerally back to their session, lost in fervency to her touch, her smell, her taste. She’s kissing him, moaning sweetly in his ear while he grinds against her, soaking the panties he now holds. It sends a throb of heat through his entire body, her underwear clenched tight in his fist, held close to his nose as he relives the moment.

Homelander returns to himself with a shaky breath, licking his lips, suddenly parched. The impulse to take them strikes him hard, but they’re too distinct. They’re part of a set. They’d be missed, and more importantly, he wants to see her wearing them. He wants to see her wearing them for him.

That gives Homelander an idea. 

With mild reluctance, he drops the panties back into her laundry bin. Stepping into her closet, he browses her dresses, checking the tags on them, looking for an average between the sizes. What he learns is that women’s sizing is largely nonsense, but by roughly measuring the width of a few with his hands, he gets a solid idea for her measurements.

If she wants luxury, he will give it to her.

Discerning her shoe size is much easier, thankfully. Coming back to her bedside, Homelander bends at the waist, reaching out to brush Layla’s hair out of her face, parting it to reveal her forehead. “Sleep tight, sweetheart,” he purrs, voice dripping with smug self-satisfaction. “Daddy’s got some shopping to do.”

After he presses a warm kiss to her forehead, he adjusts the blanket up over her shoulders, standing straight. He walks out onto her balcony with a vision in mind, and a mission to accomplish, lifting into the sky gently at first, before shooting off like a rocket.

For the next couple of days, Homelander’s schedule is painfully tight. Vought is still reeling from the press surrounding Stormfront’s death, bringing the most unpleasant of thoughts constantly to the forefront of Homelander’s mind. It’s not enough that he’s suffering. They want him to fucking prostrate himself for something that wasn’t even his fault. 

Next Saturday, he’ll stand on stage with co-captain Starlight–fucking laughable–for what is supposed to be his birthday celebration. It’s nothing but a sham built atop another sham.

However, today is Friday, and there’s only one thing on his mind. No cloying interviewers looking to pick him apart, no insipid fan events, no media circus. Today belongs to him.

As does Layla.

Standing outside the door to her office, with a few minutes to spare, Homelander’s heart patters excitedly in his chest. After that night in her apartment, he wasted no time finding her the perfect dress. He had it delivered to her with a simple note: For Friday. His anticipation has been steadily building ever since, leaving him with the same giddiness he imagines children must feel at their birthday, or Christmas.

Not that he has any experience with that.

If the world wants him to pretend it’s his birthday so badly, he may as well have one present he’s excited to unwrap.

Just as the clock hits the hour, Homelander delivers three swift, firm knocks to the door. He expects her to answer with a flourish, to wow him in the stunning ensemble he chose. Instead, he hears her beckon him from inside.

“Come in,” Layla says, voice barely above a whisper, but his keen hearing picks it up clear as a bell. She knows that he’ll hear her. Something about that tingles pleasantly in the back of his mind.

Looking down at the knob, Homelander takes it, stepping almost cautiously inside. His gaze flickers side to side before landing on the couch on the east wall, where Layla sits, an absolute vision in the fitted black dress that he chose for her.

Homelander stands dumbly in the doorway, lips parted. The way Layla’s legs are crossed perfectly accentuates the slit cut up to the side of her bare thigh. She’s wearing her hair down in loose curls today, the ends of them resting just above her chest. Homelander swallows thickly. He hadn’t been shy about the cut of the dress, and he’s glad for it now. The plunging neckline suits her exquisitely, following the swell of her breasts. He licks his lips reflexively.

“Wowza,” he says, the word barely a breath through his grin. “You look like a million bucks.”

“Thank you,” Layla responds, lips tilted in a warm, sultry kind of smile, irresistibly kissable. She extends a hand out to him. He shuts the door behind him, and in just a handful of long strides, he closes the distance between them, taking her hand in his. “Did you get my measurements from Holly?”

Bending down, Homelander kisses the top of her hand, his smile sly. “Lucky guess,” he says dismissively, inhaling. He missed the smell of her perfume, equal parts heady and sweet. It smells warm to him, gradually soothing the nerves that the rest of the world seems intent on needling. He doesn’t notice the slightly skeptical narrowing of her eyes, too busy admiring the way the dress hugs the curves of her body. Following it all the way down, he pauses, brows furrowing.

He’s just noticed there's something missing. Looking back up to her, he asks, “What about the shoes?”

Layla’s lips quirk mischievously. “Check under the couch.”

Uncertain of what her game is, but intrigued, Homelander slowly lowers himself to his knees, bracing one hand on the couch while he tilts to peer beneath, where he does indeed find a sleek black box tucked neatly below. Confused, he pulls the box out and sits back on his legs, placing it in his lap. Lifting the lid, he sees the exact heels he ordered for her: black stilettos with a pointed toe. He looks up at her, quietly awaiting an explanation.

Smoothly, Layla uncrosses her legs. Homelander’s gaze drops, following the way the slit up the side of her dress slips higher up as she slides herself forward on the couch. He wonders what she’s wearing beneath today; pink? Or perhaps she chose black to match what he chose for her, dressing herself solely with him in mind. He licks his lips.

“Help me put them on,” Layla says. It’s neither a request nor an order. Simply an instruction. Despite the innocuousness of it all, Homelander feels heat broil low in his stomach. He nods silently, setting the open box to the side. He takes out one of the shoes with one hand, and cups her corresponding ankle with the other, lifting it above his lap to slide into the heel in his opposite hand. “Very good,” she praises, stoking the fires in him. She lifts her foot out of his hand, but instead of placing it on the floor, she settles it atop his thigh, the sharp heel biting into him ever so gently.

Though it doesn’t hurt, Homelander finds himself hyper aware of the pin-prick weight of it. When she lifts her other foot, he automatically supports her ankle in his palm, reaching for the other shoe. Once again, he slips the stiletto on her, and once again, she rests her heel on his thigh. She leans forward to inspect them against the blue of his pants, putting more of her weight against him. Homelander finds himself prickling all over with anticipation. She hasn’t said a word regarding any of what he’s purchased for her, and now she has pinned him beneath her, torturing him with the casual way she tilts her head, silently appraising.

That anticipation gradually builds into an impatient itch all the way up his spine. Just tell me you like it, he wants to demand, but he can’t unclench his jaw enough to get the words out. She has utterly paralyzed him.

The next fifteen seconds pass like hours. Layla looks up at him through her lashes, and Homelander feels his stomach flip. She smiles warmly at him, and lifts her hand to cup the side of his face. He leans into it eagerly, but he doesn’t exhale until he hears her say, “They’re gorgeous. The dress, too. Thank you, John.”

He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until that very moment. He nuzzles into her hand, lips relaxing into a pleased little smile while he looks at her, eyes halfway closed. “I did good?” He asks, finally feeling as though his tongue can function again. He hooks his hands around her calves, nearly close enough to rest his head on her knees.

“You did very good,” she tells him, leaning forward, bringing her other hand up to the other side of his face. He closes his eyes as she places a soft kiss between his brows, her thumbs stroking the highs of his cheeks. “And I need you to continue to be good for me,” she says, whisper-soft.

You can not be bad, murmurs a familiar voice, an echo in the back of his mind.

Homelander opens his eyes, gazing half-lidded at her. His brows furrow. “What?”

Layla continues, “No more setting boundaries with the intention of breaking them.”

He recalls her conversation from the other night.

“... they’re establishing boundaries with the clear intention of breaking them. So, naturally I… should stop working with them.”

Homelander frowns, blinking. A feeling he doesn’t like is rising in the back of his throat like bile. Voices from now and from what feels like a lifetime ago layer overtop of each other, mixing together in a discordant chorus.

“We act with informed consent. We establish expectations before every session.”

You have to be good. And you have to listen to me.

“That’s the only way we can keep seeing each other, okay?”

And then we both can get what we want.

Homelander eyes prickle hotly, turning glassy with unbidden tears. His mouth clicks as his lips part, though no words fall. Suddenly, Layla’s eyes look to him like smoldering depths. He will never forget how she smelled as she burned.

Why couldn’t she have just loved him?

“John,” Layla calls, her tone suddenly sharper than it was a moment ago. Her voice is strained, cutting through the ringing in his ears. Homelander snaps back into focus. Layla’s not holding his face anymore, her hands on his wrists instead. Her eyes are whole again, but her expression is knotted up like she’s in pain. He realizes that his grip on her legs has tightened, fingers digging deep into the muscle of her calves, and he immediately relinquishes it, gloved hands suspended mid-air.

“Sorry,” he breathes, a word rarely found in his vocabulary. He feels disoriented, lost amidst different times of his life. He can’t wrap his mind around how he got from where he was to this moment, feeling as though his insides have been scooped out and replaced with ice.

“It’s okay,” Layla assures him, her voice tightly controlled. He hates it. He hates that he can tell she’s shaken beneath it. The beat of her heart pounds in his ears like a drum. The spoiled smell of her fear makes him nauseous. It’s worse than the stench of burning flesh. “Ssshhh, it’s okay.”

Homelander screws his eyes shut, expression twisting. He feels Layla’s hands push into his hair, drawing him towards her lap. He goes easily, burying his face into the fabric of her dress. The dress she wears for him. He moves his hands to the outside of her thighs, gripping at the loose sides of the dress like a child at his mothers skirts as he bites back the wretched sobs swelling in his throat, refusing to make a sound.

If gods are perfect, why do I feel like this?

With one hand, Layla cups the back of his head while she uses the other to rub firm circles on his back continuing to hush him. “It’s okay,” she says again. It’s not. Homelander’s grip on her dress flexes, struck by the sudden urge to rip it off of her, to lay her bare, to reduce her the way he feels reduced. He grits his teeth, exhaling a rough, broken noise.

Her touch makes him feel small, which threatens to tear him apart. Half of him wants to sink into it, soak up her warmth and her gentleness. The other half of him would rather rip her in two than suffer her pity. Before he can decide on which of the two to pursue, the sound of Layla’s voice abruptly halts his thoughts.

She’s humming. Quiet at first, but her volume evens out as she finds her melody. It’s the same tune she hummed when he laid in her arms, nestled against her chest, the beat of her heart serving as a metronome to the song. Gradually, Homelander feels himself backstepping from the cliff he was standing atop. The surrounding thoughts fall away, and he lets himself focus on the sound of her voice. The sour smell of fear has begun to fade from her, leaving only the familiar rich sweetness of her.

As her fright fades, so too does the urge to destroy her.

By the time his breaths return to their usual cadence, Homelander’s body feels heavy. Layla is still humming gently, her fingers curling soothing patterns in his hair. He’s uncertain of how much time has passed, or how long he has remaining with her. It’s sickening to recall. The thought of having to let her go when he feels like this is too much to bear.

He could take her from here. He could put her somewhere no one would ever find her. She would be for him alone.

Tempting as the idea may be, he loathes the thought of her angry with him. Scolding him. Perhaps she’d scream at him. He’s not sure he could contain himself if she did. He would sooner ruin her than see her look upon him with hatred or disgust.

Homelander’s thoughts halt when he realizes the room is silent. Layla’s hand is no longer rubbing his back, but has instead settled on his shoulder. He can feel her eyes on him, and he knows that in order to move beyond this, he will need to face her. Shame sits heavy in his gut. Reluctantly, he lifts his head from her lap, swiping at his mouth first, then catching his thumb along his under eye, wiping the indignity from his face as best he can before he lifts his gaze to meet hers.

Her expression catches him off guard. He had expected to see a mask. A thin veneer of kindness that would be betrayed by disgust in her eyes, the same kind he feels for himself in this moment. Disgust for the way he wept in her lap like a fucking child.

Instead, she looks vulnerable. Her eyes are glassy, brimming with tears, and her lips are drawn in a smile that he cannot decipher. It isn’t tight like a grimace, or a cover for some other expression. It’s gentle, and he finds himself distracted by his own bewilderment. What reason can she possibly have to look at him like that?

“Hey,” Layla greets softly, lifting her hand from his shoulder to cup the side of his face. Homelander stares wordlessly, unable to formulate a response to such a simple word. This isn’t what he braced himself for, and now he is at a loss. “C’mere,” she says, keeping her voice whisper soft.

Layla gives him a gentle tug, though it takes an extra one for him to comply, lifting himself up into her embrace. Dumbfounded, he allows her to manipulate his body, following the way she places his arms around her middle as she lays back with him, settling him down on top of her. Homelander is tense, braced for something, though for the life of him he cannot say what.

This consequence doesn’t make sense.

While he’s processing, Layla begins combing her fingers through his hair again. Bit by bit, that tension begins to bleed from his body, the residual tears clear from his eyes. He sinks against her in a stupor of emotional exhaustion, nuzzling slightly at her collarbone, cheek pressed against her bare skin. The positioning of their limbs is messy, awkward out of necessity, but Homelander can’t be bothered to adjust. In this moment, he feels like he has never needed to feel the assurance of another body against him more desperately in his life.

Eventually, Layla breaks the silence to ask, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Homelander says, his attempt at a confident response undercut by the way he croaks the word. ”Fine.”

“It’s okay if you’re not,” she replies, nails dragging light lines down his scalp. The feeling makes his skin tingle pleasantly. He wishes he could focus on that alone, and forget the rest of this. “You looked like you were dissociating.”

“I’m fine,” Homelander says again, stressing it a little more firmly this time.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Layla goes on, that endlessly patient tone of hers beginning to needle beneath his skin. She needs to drop it. “Lots of people–”

“I’m not like lots of people,” he snaps, the shift in his tone enough to pause her hand in his hair. Pulling one arm from around her, he braces his hand on the couch and lifts himself on it to stare down at her, jaw tight. “I’m not. Do you understand that? I’m a god, and I don’t need your fucking pity.”

If the alternative to her fear is her pity, he doesn’t want it. He would rather–

Break her fucking neck.

Homelander recoils, gaze darting off to the side. The thought came so abruptly, so crystal clear, it was as though he heard it whispered in his ear.

He startles slightly when Layla touches her hand to his face, featherlight. Warm. He looks down at her, and something in him churns. She isn’t afraid, but her body language feels the way it was their very first session. There is a tentativeness to her movements that he thought they were beyond. If she hadn’t pushed, if she had just shut her mouth and–

“A god of flesh and blood, then,” she says quietly, disarming him. There is a subtle reverence to the way her lips form the words that enraptures him. Her hand caresses down from his cheek to the collar of his suit, where her fingers slip just beneath the fabric. He feels her press her fingers in firm against his skin, right where his pulse leaps against her touch. “I feel your heart.”

Smoothly, and with recovering confidence, she takes hold of his hand, and brings it up to rest over her chest, pressing her hand firmly down atop his. “Do you feel mine?”

Of course he does. Even through the leather of his glove, he can feel the thrum of it. He can hear it clear as day. He nods subtly. “Yes.”

“They beat just the same,” she says, her voice such a low whisper, it could be meant for no one else. “You aren’t less for it, John. You’re more. You’re…” Layla pauses, breath catching in her throat. Her lips are parted, her eyes flickering across his face. He hears the dry click of her throat as she swallows.

“What?” He prompts, leaning closer to her. “What am I?”

“A force of nature,” she breathes, licking her lips. The glisten of them distracts him briefly. “You captivate me.”

Homelander’s lips twitch. This is what he wants. Veneration, adoration, awe. This is what he is owed.

“Do I scare you?” he asks, leaving his hand as an anchor upon her chest, his ego soothed.

Layla holds his gaze, heartbeat impressively steady. “Should I be scared?”

Touché. He had considered shattering her.

“No.”

“Good,” she says, which feels to him a praise. Her smile is gentle, as is the way she draws her hand up from his neck to cup his face. Homelander leans into it, brushing the tip of his nose against hers. Much to his delight, she kisses him. It’s enough for him to let slide the slippery way she answered his question. Her level pulse and the sweet vanilla smell of her are enough of an answer for now.

Homelander pushes deeper into the kiss. The emotional outpour has left him feeling carved out, hollow. He shifts his hand to the back of her neck and pulls her into him, craves the way he knows she can fill up this emptiness. He suspends himself weightlessly over her, hovering with his power of flight so that he can slide his gloved hand up her exposed thigh, following the slit of her dress.

Layla’s heart jumps in a way he likes. He can feel her flustering as his touches become more intense, more purposeful. She parts her lips like an invitation, and he slips his tongue eagerly between them. He loves the way her hands slide into his hair, the touch familiar and unreserved. He wants more, wants her intimately acquainted with every inch of him so that she might never again hesitate to touch him.

Be mine.

Homelander moves from her lips to her jaw, kissing his way down her neck. The deep neckline of her dress is too delicious to ignore, disheveled from the way he was pressed against her. He follows it with his lips, brushing them along the inner swell of her breasts, wanting desperately to taste her. He makes his way lower, kissing beyond her neckline to her stomach, savoring the way her hands tighten in his hair, tugging and pushing like she can’t decide where she wants him.

He’s delighted to make that call for her.

He nearly makes it between her legs, where he can already smell exactly how deliciously sweet she’ll taste, before she stops him with a decidedly sharp tug on his hair and a breathy but firm, “John.” His gaze flickers up to her. Fuck, she’s gorgeous. Her lips are shiny and kiss-swollen, hair thoroughly mussed, backlit by the lamp behind her like a goddamn halo. He doesn’t want to destroy her, but he does want to ruin her.

“I need to know that you hear me,” she tells him, an unexpected edge of desperation in her tone. It cuts through the haze of hunger fogging his mind. “I want this to work, but in order for that to happen, you have to abide by the boundaries we set. Do you hear me?”

“Yeah,” Homelander answers briskly, a flash of irritation and impatience creeping into his voice. “Yeah, yes, yes, I hear you,” he says, desperately fighting to recalibrate his brain. Boundaries. Fucking boundaries. “No sex.”

“It’s not about the sex, it’s about expectations. Consent,” she says, shifting to sit up. He lets her.

“You already told me you want me, so what’s holding you back? What, because I didn’t–I didn’t check the right boxes? Seriously, Layla?” He asks incredulously, gesturing with his hands, his movements gradually becoming more erratic.

“Yes, John, seriously. Those aren’t just some boxes–they’re you and I mutually agreeing to an arrangement, and every time you break it, you’re telling me you don’t respect the arrangement. That you don’t respect me. What am I supposed to do with that? If you would just–”

“I don’t want to buy sex with you,” Homelander interrupts, bristling, irritated that she was forcing him to spell it out for her. “I want to fuck you because you want me.”

Layla’s lips part, she hesitates. Her brows furrow. He just wants to kiss that look off her face. “John, I’m a whore.”

Homelander scoffs, looking away from her, growing more aggravated. “No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am. That was your word,” she insists, moving to stand up from the couch, but this time he stops her, taking hold of her wrists as he looks back to her. Unperturbed, she leans in and says, “If that word bothers you now, it’s because you’ve changed. I haven’t.”

“What happened to captivating you, huh?” He throws back, holding her firmly in place. “I’m not just another one of your clients.” Layla takes a breath to respond, but stops herself. He bites back a smirk. He’s right, and they both know it. “Let me take you to dinner.”

Layla’s expression blanks, like he’s just hit a reset button. “What?”

“Dinner,” he says again, setting her hands down into her lap, letting them go. He smiles at her, becoming more animated as he explains, gesturing between them. “You, me, rooftop steaks, the whole shebang. No–no contracts, or boxes, or whatever. A date.”

Crossing her arms, she’s starting to look uneasy. It makes him want to shake her a little, keep her from overthinking it the way she always does. “John, you couldn’t handle a relationship with me.”

“Jesus Christ, Layla!” He exclaims, voice laced with playful exasperation, lifting his hands skyward before dropping them back down into his lap. “I’m not asking for your hand in marriage here,” he says, laughing dryly. Not yet, anyhow. “I’m asking for a date. One night, you and me, no pretenses. My treat.”

Layla stares at him, looking wholly at a loss, but he can hear the gears in her mind turning. She’s already more or less admitted that she wants this–not to him, of course, but admitted nonetheless–so now all he has to do is wait. He’s certain he can see her falling to talk herself out of it.

“...One night,” she says at last. Homelander resists the urge to punch his fist into the air in victory, though he does grin widely. “Dinner. And… No suit.”

Homelander’s cocky grin drops off. “What?”

“No suit,” Layla repeats, firmer this time. “You come dressed as John.”

It takes him a moment to fully process her words. John. She’s making him regret giving her the fucking name. Homelander runs his tongue along his teeth before he bites down on it, looking away. His suit is more him than ‘John’ ever will be. He chuckles mirthlessly. “I always wear my suit.”

“I never date clients,” Layla counters immediately, like the words were already locked and loaded on her tongue.

Homelander’s eyes flicker back over to her, narrowing minutely. Once again, she kicked his legs out from under him, and effortlessly leveled the playing field, forcing them both into a compromise. He can refuse, but so can she. Inhaling slowly and deeply, he then exhales the word, “Fine. ”

Something in Layla eases with his reluctant compliance, the tense line of her shoulders relaxing into a delicate curve. After a moment, Homelander reaches out, adjusting the neckline of her dress. “Will you wear this?” He asks, running his finger along the seam where the fabric meets her skin.

“Do you want me to?” Layla asks, which does tease a small chuckle out of him.

“Yes.”

“Then ask me to wear it.”

Homelander looks up at her. “Wear this dress on our date,” he says, though a quirk of her brow swiftly has him reassessing his words. That was telling, not asking. Clearing his throat, he tries again. “Will you wear this dress on our date… Please?” He asks, the word slipping from his tongue much easier than it used to.

Layla gives him a once over, less playful than he usually expects of her. She’s still thinking too much. Regardless, she has a faint smile when she meets his stare. “I will.”

He smiles in return, cupping her face in his hands as he brings her swiftly in for a kiss. Giddiness bubbles in his chest. Finally, they’ll be out of this fucking office. No forms, no beeping watch, no goddamn rules. Just an honest to god date.

“You won’t regret this,” Homelander murmurs against her lips.

Layla doesn’t respond to that, but she does kiss him again, her touch as leisurely as ever. They spend a little time figuring out the logistics of their date, settling on the following Friday, the night before his Vought sponsored birthday promotion, and in place of what would be their next session. After that, the two are able to finish out the session in peace, kissing and touching languidly. He has a hard time letting go of her, knowing it'll be a full, agonizing week before he has her in his arms again, but the renewed context of their meeting has him more excited than remorseful.

As far as Homelander’s concerned, with only the outcome ultimately mattering to him, the session couldn’t have gone better.

[jayybear]

Im actually obsessed! this series is so good omg

[avenging-fandoms]

Let me call pedro daddy and see how we end up.

Hint: red ass, tears, and pregnant

i've been saying for SO LONG that i think pedro has a breeding kink

did you see how flustered he got when the interviewer called him "daddy" ?

You would see the interview and get annoyed that another woman was calling your man daddy, but now you knew the truth. He never told you anything about it, and now it took the internet for you to find out.

When Pedro came home that day, you were lit on fire from the inside. You watched him walk across the living room like a normal day, smiling as he spotted you on the couch. 

"There's my girl" he smiles and holds your chin as he kisses you, your hands in his hands as you stand on your knees, arms around his neck. He hums and you pull away, a cheeky grin on his face. "What was that for?"

"Just because I love you,” you smile, Pedro sitting next to you. “How was your day, daddy?”

You watched as his whole demeanor changed, his smile dropping softly and his eyes darkened. “What?”

“I asked how your day was” you shrug with an innocent smile, going to get up but he grabbed your hand, holding your hips down on his lap. "Daddy"

"There it is again, that fucking name" Pedro's hand held your throat softly, pushing your head up and taking a deep breath as he drank you in. "Say it again" 

"Why don't you go have that interviewer call you it again? You sure liked it 'cause you called her mama" you pushed his hand away and his ears dropped, hand holding your cheek with his fingers in your hair. 

"You are my only girl, my flower, my moon and stars," You close your eyes, leaning into his hand as he rubbed your cheek with his thumb. "I love you.. mama" He smiles and you open your eyes, leaning forward and pressing your forehead against his. 

"I love you.." your breath fanned over his desperate mouth, his eyes heavy as he was entranced by you. "Daddy" He hums, kissing you roughly, pushing you to the couch and smoothing his body on yours. 

Your hands tugged at his shirt, his hand pulling your leg over his waist and smacking your ass. "Dirty girl, calling your boyfriend daddy" He mumbled in your ear, hand holding under your chin with his fingers squishing your cheeks softly, spanking you over and over as you laid over his thighs. "And instead of coming to me and using your words, you wanted to play games and tease me."

"I'm sorry, Pedro, I'm so sorry" he slapped your ass harder that time and you let out a cry, a tear rolling down your nose.

"That's not my name" his hand rubbed your sore cheeks, and you took a deep breath and hum softly as his hand felt nice. "What's my name?"

"Daddy.. it's daddy" you breathe, letting your feet fall to the couch. Pedro kissed the side of your head, flipping you on your back and kissing you softly. Your hands rub down his back, tugging his shirt up and ripping it off. 

Pedro’s hands smoothed under your sweatshirt and held your breasts, twirling your nipple in between his fingers, as your hips pushed up towards his. “So needy, baby” 

“Please, daddy, I need you” you mumble as you bite his neck, fingers tugging his hair. Pedro chuckles and moves between your legs, pulling off your shorts and seeing you weren’t wearing any underwear. 

“My goodness, sweet girl. You are so naughty. No underwear.. no bra..” He pushed up your sweatshirt and wrapped his mouth around your nipple, swirling his tongue as his fingers rubbed up and down your pussy. 

“More!” You exclaimed, grabbing his bicep and Pedro moved his fingers inside of you, fucking you fast right off the bat. You him and bite your lip, eyes squeezed shut as you grabbed Pedro’s arm. 

Pedro’s eyes never left your face. He got hard on watching your face twist and body curve into him as he hit every spot. Your eyes opened and locked with his, Pedro smiling as his thumb rubbed your clit. 

“‘M gonna… fuck Pedro” He pulled away and you huff, Pedro pulling down his pants and you drool. 

You sat up and winced a bit, ass still sore as it dragged on the couch a bit. Pedro stood on his knees as he watched you wrap your mouth around his cock, groaning your name. "Fuck, my girl. You look so pretty, I just need to take a picture"

Pedro's favorite thing to do was taking pictures of you two. Intimately, romantically, everything. You loved it- how he loved you. He never shared the photos, only the romantic ones, and even then he barely shared them because he loved to have them for himself. 

"Alright, momma, turn over" you pull away and smile, perching your ass in front of Pedro and shaking it in his face. 

"Fuck me, daddy" you push back against his dick, Pedro pushing his tip against you. Pedro gathers your spit in his hand and rubs it on your pussy, pushing himself into you. “Yes, oh my god, fucking shit”

“I am yours.. You are mine” Pedro held your face, kissing you softly all over his face as his skin slaps against yours. “This pussy’s all mine, these breasts, your lips, your eyes.. All mine. And I’m the luckiest man ever”

“Tell me you’re all mine, Pedro. Tell me..” you bring his mouth down to yours, holding your palm down on his lower back as you curl your toes, biting his biceps. 

“I’m all yours, y/n y/l/n. I’m going to make you my wife and the mother of our children. God, you’d look so fucking gorgeous pregnant” Pedro gasped, hand rubbing down your stomach and his fingers rubbed back and forth fast on your clit. “Fuck that fucking interviewer, I don’t even remember her face. Every woman I look at, all I see is you” his forehead pressed against yours, a smile on your face as your orgasm got closer. 

“That’s more like it, daddy. All mine, and I’ll sure that bitch knows it” you moved so Pedro was under you, bouncing your hips and holding onto his knees. “Take a video, daddy. Send it to that girl” Pedro chuckled and shook his head, holding your hip with the other hand holding his phone as he filmed you bouncing on his cock. Pedro let out a whimper, your arms weakening a bit. 

“You got tight, are you close?” 

“Yes, daddy. I’m gonna cum all over your big fucking cock. Fuck, holy shit. Fill me up, daddy. Fill my pussy up with your cum, fuck” Pedro came at just your words, pushing you down to the couch and pumping you full of his cum. 

He slammed his hips into yours, grinning as you screamed his name as your thighs shook from your orgasm. Pedro laid on your chest, pulling out of you and the both of you caught your breath. You played with Pedro’s hair, his thumb rubbing your hips as he closed his eyes. 

“Honey,” Pedro broke the silence and you hummed. “Were you actually jealous?”

“Yes, P, I was. I didn’t like how you gave it back to her, and so quickly at that. Maybe I’m overreacting, I don’t know. You’re a very attractive man, why wouldn’t they hit on you?”

“But the best part is, is that all of them mean nothing to me because you’re my girl forever, and I’m yours forever” 

“You promise?” you mumble and Pedro climbs up, kissing you softly. 

“I double pinky promise” He says and you smile, hugging him close as you pressed your skin against his. “You wanna go shower now?”

“There’s nothing I’d love more” Pedro picks you up, the both of you still completely naked. Pedro took a right and you got confused, the shower was in your bedroom straight down the hall. He walked out onto the patio, looking at you with a devilish grin. 

“Plug your nose!” you shriek as Pedro charges for the pool, the both of you falling in.

You poke your head out of the water, smoothing your hair back. “Well, I guess this is one way to wash off” You huff and Pedro laughs, swimming over to you and kissing you. “I love you, P, forever” 

“I love you forever, honey”

[luveline]

𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐬 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧 

summary eddie munson is super weird. he holds your hand too tight, he has a fascination with your neck, and he can’t give a hickey to save his life. good thing you’re super weird, too. [20k]

warnings two losers falling in love!! vampire!eddie munson, ditzy!reader (kind of), fem!reader, smut mdni (p in v, unprotected sex, oral fem receiving, general heavy petting and kissing, praise), fluff, hurt/comfort, angst (eddie struggling with guilt and grief). canon divergent (the events of volume 2 take place but there’s a mostly happy ending i.e. everyone good lives and everyone bad dies) TW eddie doesn't have suicidal thoughts, but he does think about it briefly. not with intent or anything like that though. requested here for my halloween party <3

(㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ)

Eddie Munson never wanted to be a vampire, and he wants that on the record. 

It's a ridiculous existence. It's embarrassing. It's nothing like all the movies and books promised him. 

He's looking at you, Bram Stoker. 

In Eddie's mind, Stoker’s nothing less than a liar and a sycophant. 

"Who's dick were you bouncing on, Stoker?" he demands to know, kicking fallen leaf mulch under his feet angrily. "Need'ta fucking impress some vampire lover with your over-exaggerated, over-powered, ridiculous descriptions? Great. Hope it was worth it. Meanwhile I'm here, self-esteem half the size of a grain of rice because I can't scale a building with my bare hands." 

Eddie would know. He's tried. 

He's not genuinely angry with Bram Stoker, but he'd rather take his frustrations out on a guy who's been dead for a hundred years than take them out on the demobats, because he doesn't want to even think about the demobats. They're all dead too. Not before they'd had (see: devoured) their pound of flesh and changed his life for the worse, though.

He shakes his head to drive out the memory like water in his ears. It's easier to pretend none of that shit in the upside down ever happened. (Impossible to pretend. He begs himself to try anyway.) 

He’s pissed because science fiction has promised him a lot of things and reality has delivered on none of them. No super strength, no impermeable skin. He is faster, but that's more a reflexive thing than anything else. And being faster doesn't make running fun. That’s impossible.

Sunlight breaks through the treeline and his skin crawls. Science fiction didn't get that right, either. The sun doesn't hurt. It's just really, really annoying.

He covers his eyes, winces at his itchy hand, pulls his sleeve over his fingers and covers his eyes again. "This blows," he says, and means it. 

In Dracula, the sun nulls Dracula’s supernatural abilities. Eddie doesn’t have any abilities worth nulling, unless you count echolocation.

He doesn’t. 

He walks another five minutes up the road toward Forest Hills when he realises you're behind him. His senses are enhanced now as a bat’s might be, hearing fine-tuned and dialled up every second of the day — which makes living in a trailer park where everyone thinks he's a murderer an acute misery — but he's as prone to distraction as anyone else. Especially when he gets stuck in a memory.

Eddie throws his gaze over his shoulder and finds you thirty or forty feet away, talking to yourself under your breath. He knows you more for your sounds than your appearance. To be able to put a face to your mindless babbling is a mystery solved. Of course you look like that. A skirt made of soft looking fabric bounces over two cute thighs, a pretty lacy corset type of thing that isn't too tight outfits your top half. You look more like a vampire than he does. 

"Hi, Eddie," you call.

His eyes widen, a deer-in-the-headlights kind of surprise. If you notice how he's frozen you don't show it, continuing to push your bike toward him. The tick of the wheels grows louder as you get closer, two hands on the handlebars with wrists draped in bracelets, both silver and fabric. 

Besides your jewellery, your arms are bare. You must be freezing. 

"Hey," he says. 

He doesn't know your name. He doesn't know how you know his, and he’s too awkward to ask. 

Your sounds peak as you close the gap. The wet scrape of your dirty black canvas shoes over shining asphalt, the soft puff of your breath, the clinking sounds of whatever trinkets you have in your bag. If he focuses, he can make out the tiniest pinches of fabric. Your short sleeves rubbing against your arms, your bra straps stretching over your shoulders. 

Eddie takes a deep breath and tries to diminish his senses. 

"Where's your van?" you ask curiously. 

"Piece of shit kicked it in the middle of town. Just my luck." 

You pause at his side, looking him up and down obviously but without the judgement or irreverent disgust he's come to expect from near about everybody in Hawkins. 

"That's not good," you say succinctly. 

It's such a genuine response that Eddie can't find it in himself to be sarcastic. 

"God awful," he agrees sullenly. 

You nod and start to walk again. Eddie falls naturally into step beside you, matching your pace without thinking. 

"You should get a bike." 

He laughs. Coughs to cover it up. "Yeah?" 

"They're way more reliable than a car, and it doesn't hurt the zone." 

Eddie squints. "The o-zone?" 

"Is there another one?" 

You're still so serious that he spares you the ridicule he might dole out to anyone else. If Dustin had said something like that he would've ripped the kid a new one, but you're rather sweet in an odd way. You have a soft manner of talking — each word sounds like you've thought its pronunciation through meticulously beforehand. 

He ignores your question and points at your bike, ring catching the sun. "Why aren't you riding it?" 

"My chain slipped." 

"So much for reliable." 

That makes you smile. Eddie feels it like a punch, a flat palm slapped into his chest. 

"You can't put the chain on yourself?" 

A brisk breeze whips your hair, your earrings. The left kisses your cheek, a silver heart-shaped hoop with pink beads that click together. You lean into it, face tilted to one side as a perplexed smile plays on your sticky lips. "You can do that?" 

"Sure, you pull it back around the gear. It's easy." He hesitates for a moment, and then feels guilty about hesitating. "I'll do it for you, if you want." 

"The guy in no. 62 has been charging me ten dollars." You don't sound as angry as you should, in Eddie's opinion. 

"I'll do it for nothing." 

You beam at him. His chest feels like a bruise. 

Pretty girls don't like Eddie. Not before Chrissy, not after. He's trying to work out your angle, what it is that you want. 

Or maybe you don't know. 

As soon as you find out who he is, you'll turn your pretty nose up at him and walk the other way. He shouldn't smile at you, he definitely shouldn't fix your bike. 

He can't help it. He's so starved for positive attention that he follows you all the way through the park, westside to east. 

He checks the driveway of his own home and smiles mildly when he spots Wayne's new car. It's new in the sense that it's different. It's actually way older than the one he'd had before, the one he'd pawned to pay for Eddie's — well, Eddie's everything. His check-ups, his court dates, his goddamn bail. In the same way that this trailer isn't the trailer, but an older, smaller one as far away from their first as possible. 

Kid, if I had the money…

Wayne hadn't needed to finish. If he had the money, they'd leave. Leave Hawkins, leave Indiana. Settle down in some other mediocre Midwestern state with all the same creature comforts and none of the "You were acquitted but literally none of us believe you didn't kill someone," motif. 

All they have now is debt, each other, and the Great Munson mug collection. 

Eddie keeps his head down as they pass the old trailer. Nobody lives inside now. Only termites. 

He can taste blood by the time they reach your home. Far from the metallicity of his human blood, Eddie's blood now harbours a bitter taste. Not quite like coffee but with that same overwhelming earthiness. He pulls his teeth from the bitten flesh of his bottom lip and quickly raises a hand to his teeth, alarmed. 

No knife-like points. Normal teeth. 

"Are you thirsty?" you ask him. 

Eddie flinches and drops his hand. You've parked your bike against the wooden lifts of your porch and are halfway up the steps to your front door, hand clasped loosely on the railing. 

His heart fucking pounds. 

"I have grape juice?" 

"Right," he says hurriedly, "right. Yeah, that would be awesome." 

Duh, you meant juice. 

You send him another endearing smile and pop up the last of your steps and into the front door. It's not locked. He doesn't follow, thinking you must live with somebody (who's gonna know exactly who he is and tell him to get lost).

He turns his attention to your bike instead. It's easy enough to fix. He rolls the bike so its handlebars are resting against your concrete driveway and covers the top bar of the metal body with his sneaker to stop it from toppling. He rolls up his sleeves and bares his arms, but pulls them back down immediately when he remembers the white-purple whorls of scar tissue lurking underneath. 

"Fuck," he mutters. Everything is a reminder, all of the time. He can't escape what happened. 

It's everywhere. 

He's getting his fingers under the chain when you reappear. You've layered up, bracelets and naked arms hidden by a black hoodie. 

The wind blows and your skirt shifts. From his position he can see a ladder hiding in your tights where your inner thighs are pressed together. He whips his gaze up like a high-school perv caught sneaking peeks in the girls locker room and notices the stitching on your chest for the first time.

"You like Dio?" he asks excitedly. 

"Who?" 

He wilts. "Uh, your hoodie. Dio." 

"I got it for three dollars in the bargain bins," you supply helpfully, all pep as you climb down the stairs and offer him a glass cup adorned in dainty enamel flowers. "Is Dio good?" 

He waves his hand at the glass apologetically. "Two seconds…" Lifting the chain with the second hand, Eddie tugs and then feeds until the links are lined up with the bumps on the big chainring. The skin on his fingertips get pinched and his eyebrows pull together in pain, but it's a mild irritant at worst and after a moment the chain is back in place. 

He pulls his hand away and wipes dark grease down the front of his jacket. "I think I did it." 

You're glowing, earrings like a metronome as you ask, "That fast? You're awesome."

He turns the pedal and your back wheel spins in time with his heart. You're awesome. When was the last time somebody who wasn't Wayne said anything like that? 

Although Dustin had told him he thought Eddie was a much cooler, more fucked up version of the guy from Van Halen the other day. 

You're just saying that 'cos we're both called Eddie, Eddie had said morosely. 

Learn to take a compliment, dude. 

When they aren't pity compliments, he might. 

Eddie lifts your bike back onto the wheels to show you that it's working perfectly. You giggle your evident pleasure. "Oh, thank you, thank you!" you say, super sweet even as grape juice sloshes over the rims of your flowered glasses and drips down your fingers. 

"Here, let me," he says, taking the glasses from your purple-stained hands. 

You kiss your hands clean which is a thing, a lot to watch. Eddie admits to himself that he thinks you're really pretty, recognises that that is a bad thing to think considering the likely very short life span of your acquaintance. God knows you won't be saying anything as friendly when you find out who he is. 

"You're so nice," you say. It feels like you're talking more to yourself than him. "Thank you. It's slipped off three times this month, and ten dollars is ten dollars. Wait, do you want ten dollars?" 

"My services were administered charitably.”

Your smile grows. You accept your glass and take a small sip, eyes lit up as Eddie steers your bike one-handed to rest against the porch. 

"Do you wanna come inside? I don't have any of the Dio, but I have Blondie." 

He holds in a throwaway comment about real rock and roll, astounded that you’d ask him. "Your folks aren't home?" 

"I'm twenty-two." 

Eddie squints at you. "Seriously?" 

"You didn't think so?" 

He shrugs. It's not that you don't look twenty two. Or even that you don't act twenty two. But it's been a long time since he met somebody living alone in the park. Forest Hills is where poverty comes to settle. 

"A boyfriend?" 

"Just me and mister Porterson." 

"That your grandpa?" 

"That's my pet fish."

He smiles. It's his first real, authentic smile in days. He's genuinely elated by your offer and your attitude, but he doesn't know how to handle it, struck with a sudden nightmare of you, afterward, telling somebody you'd invited him in and he'd tried to hurt you. It isn't fair of him to assume you'd do anything like that. You've been nothing but sweet and sincere this whole time. 

Eddie hasn't let his guard down in a long time. 

You're giving him this wide-eyed, imploring look that promptly suffocates any fear. 

And in a week, when she finds out who you are and feels betrayed, feels tricked? What then, Munson?

"You know what happened?" he asks.

"What happened?" 

"Two years ago. Chrissy… Chrissy Cunningham?" 

Don't say her fucking name. 

Your expression clears as clarity blooms. You take a step. He needs a second to realise you've come forward rather than away, fingers twitching toward his hand. 

"I know about it. I'm sorry that happened to you." 

He stares. 

This is a trick. Two years and he can count the amount of people who believe him on his two hands, and only because they'd all gone through it with him. Sometimes there are outliers, logical people who seem to realise Eddie couldn't have killed all those people, couldn't have been in all those different places without leaving any evidence behind. And sometimes there are people who agree he didn't kill Chrissy, but he's a coward for leaving her to die. (She’d already been dead.)

Eddie doesn't know what he thinks. Wayne sets the record straight every now and then with a clap on the shoulder. You did what every parent wants their kid to do. You lived. I can't ask for more than that. 

"You don't believe it?" 

"That you hurt her?" You hold his gaze, face practically impassive. "No, I don't believe it." 

He pulls in a breath that fills every inch of his chest. "I could learn to like Blondie," he says. 

— 

You're standing in the driveway of Eddie's trailer with a heavy bag over your shoulder, face to face with a man who kind of looks like him but not really. You assume it's his uncle because who else could he be? If you hadn't seen him here you'd never guess. 

"Eddie's mom must've had strong genes," you say. You bring your shoulder up toward your cheek thoughtfully. "He didn't get any of your face. Was she pretty? Eddie's really pretty." 

"She was," he says, peering down his nose at you. 

"I got sandwiches. Do you want one?" 

"What kind?" 

"I have ham and cheese, or ham and lettuce and tomato, or I have pumpernickel cookies. Is Eddie a vegetarian?" 

"Why?" 

"'Cause I only brought one cheese and cucumber, and I have dibs." 

He climbs down the last couple of steps and is still taller but definitely less imposing, face covered in scratchy salt and pepper stubble and crows feet deeply embedded into the corners of his eyes. He looks like a man who has been tired for a very long time. You make a mental note to bring him some lavender for his pillow on your next visit. 

"You're Eddie's new friend?"

You nod your head briskly. "Yes, sir. I'm Y/N." 

He opens his box of camels like a pro, bottom pressed to his chest. He tucks a cigarette between his lips and pulls his lighter out. He doesn't light it. 

"It's nice to meet you," he says eventually, voice warming. 

You search through the mess of your skirt for the zipper on your bag and peel it open, pulling out your tupperware of cookies and cracking them open to release the fragrant smell of cinnamon and almonds. It's a heady scent, fitting for the holiday season approaching. 

You offer Eddie’s uncle a cookie.

"Thought pumpernickel was bread," he says gruffly, taking one. 

"It is, but there's this little town in France that makes these every year at Christmas and they call them pumpernickel biscuits," — he takes a bite and winces at the hard snap — "you're s'posed to dip them in hot chocolate." 

"You don't say." 

You nod happily and he moves aside to let you pass. 

"Thanks, kid." 

You turn back to him with your fingers curled around the door handle. "Of course! It's really nice to meet you, Mr. Munson, sir." 

"Wayne is fine." 

You laugh and repeat his name in a similarly rough voice, letting yourself in as Eddie had told you to do. You find him immediately in a man-made corner of the living room, pale and in his pyjamas. The trailer is open planned, a living room they’ve divided by propping a couch against the kitchen counter, a slim hallway leading to a cramped bathroom and the single bedroom. It's exactly like in your home. 

You're somewhat surprised to see him in pyjamas. Eddie doesn't wear comfy looking clothes out of the house — you've only ever seen him in jeans and jackets like a real rockstar. 

"Are you ready?" you ask.

You've invited him to come and search for bugs with you. Catching any kind of bug, whether beetle or butterfly or spider, is really scary, but you need to be able to catch them to draw them. 

You'd expressed this to him over the phone and he'd said, "I can come and help. I have good reflexes." 

He rubs his hands over his knees. There's a blanket pooled around his feet, a quilt he must sleep with, and the room is decorated with not a whole lot of stuff but enough to make you take a step back. 

"Is this your room?" you ask, enchanted. 

"Kind of." He pulls his hair from behind his ear, obscuring a pale cheek. "I don't think I can come with you today, I'm sorry. I meant to call you." 

You toy with a dark thigh high sock as you ease out of your shoes, height drastically decreasing. "That's okay, we can stay here. I brought you a sandwich. I brought you two sandwiches," you correct. 

He nods. Rather sadly, in your opinion. "Alright. Thanks." 

You step over a tented paperback and hand off the cookies before sitting down beside him on the couch he's occupying. It's smaller than the one against the wall and round like a clam, lots of room for your legs to stretch out. 

"I feel like a pearl," you say. 

You and Eddie have been friends for a little while now. Long enough for you to realise he's either depressed or mentally unwell in some way. You hardly mind keeping him company on his bad days if he needs somebody, so drawing bugs will have to wait. 

His hair is limp, not totally greasy but not super clean either. His face looks fresh enough, though the bags under his eyes make you frown. 

You pull your purse into your lap, thighs covered by the thin layers of your midi skirt. "I have just the thing for you," you murmur. 

"Yeah? Bring me another bracelet?" 

You like that he sounds eager. Making his bracelet had been a challenge, lots of knotting and double knotting, three restarts and one small under the breath tantrum. It's not anything special, black and white hearts seven strands wide, but he'd been very appreciative. 

"No, but I can make you another one if you want. I mastered the inverse chevron last night." 

He hums. You pull a saran wrapped sandwich from the depths of your crowded bag, glad to see it's mostly intact. When you open it up you find that it's the ham and lettuce and tomato one, so you drop it into his lap haphazardly and move onto the next. 

"Aha! Here," you pull a cucumber from your sandwich. "For you." 

He takes it between two tentative fingers. "Thank you?" 

"For your eyes." 

"There's cheese on it." 

"I'll still work," you assure him. 

"M'not putting cheese on my eyes." 

You laugh because he probably shouldn't put cheese on his eyes, cucumber adjacent or otherwise. "Okay, don't. I'll make you a hot towel." 

He drops his hand on your arm as you go to stand. You like how he touches you, soft but not scared. "You just got here. Stay here." He pats you nicely. "Tell me about work last night." 

You settle heavily into the seat beside him, your thigh to his thigh, your hip squished against his hip, doughy flesh separated by nothing more than a strappy tank top and a cotton long-sleeve t-shirt. His heat quickly becomes yours, a sinking transference of warmth. 

"Well," you begin, cheek turning into the couch to face him. "It was mostly okay. I dropped another plate, but this time it didn't have a stack of waffles on it." 

He smiles ruefully and sinks back as you had. Neither of you eat your sandwiches. "Progress. Taking it out of your pay?" 

"Yes, definitely." 

"Discrimination." 

"That's what I said! I said, Sarah, I was born with butterfingers and you know that." 

"She didn't budge?" 

"Dishwashing all week next week. Whatever, though, 'cause it's Saturday." 

He laughs and shakes his head, his gaze dropping to your neck. He does that sometimes. You can't blame him; you wear a varying assortment of necklaces because you think they're pretty, and you're glad he likes them too. 

"See my new one?" 

"What?" 

"New necklace." You look down at your chest and pull the newest addition from between the cups of your bra. "It's real silver." 

"It's nice." 

"It's surprisingly heavy. Wanna feel?" 

"That's okay," he says, slightly strained. 

Right, you think. I'm talking a lot. 

You press your lips together in a mild pout and look at him through appreciative eyes. He's a very pretty boy, all soft and pale and sweet dark curls.

"Do you want me to put your hair up?" 

His lips part before he talks. "I don't know if you should." 

"Sure I should. It's getting in your eyes, right?" You take his hand where it's laid unsuspectingly in his lap and slip the hair tie from around his wrist, his fingertips tickling the inside of your palm. "Sit forward, Eddie." 

He takes a deep breath, holds it, and sits up. You twist and then realise you need some more height, pushing a leg under yourself to kneel next to his lap. 

You weave our fingers softly into the hair at the front of his face and rake away in lieu of a brush. After it's mostly tamed you pull it all into one hand and wrap the tie at the base of his head. You hum to yourself as you go, pleased when his lovely curls behave. 

"Voilà," you announce, moving back on your haunches. 

He breathes out. "Thank you." 

You reach for a curl you'd missed at the very front and encourage it behind his ear. He has subtle indents in his cheeks today like he's in need of a good meal, and his skin is colder than it should be when you flatten your palm. 

"You need something to eat," you fret. Your fingertips stroke under his eye, your thumb his smile lines. 

He moves away slowly. 

You pull your hand back into your lap. "Maybe we can go out and get something, if you don't like the sandwich?" 

"What?" he asks, pale lips taut as he simpers at you. "Are you kidding? This is about to fix everything that's wrong with me." 

His enthusiasm emboldens you. "It so will! There's ham and cheese too, if you prefer that one." 

"Get it! I'm gonna eat both of them." S

Eddie eats both of his sandwiches and you eat your own, the two of you with your heads dropped back against the couch as you watch TV. There's a guy you've never seen before running around the streets of Chicago city centre looking for people to be in his play. Eddie's seen it before. He repeats dialogue in time with the characters, performing each line. Impressive, what with how tired he looks. 

"What did he just say?" you ask, mouth full of cucumber.

"He said he's gonna throw himself off a bridge," Eddie informs. "Poor guy. I know the feeling." 

You swallow harshly.

"Seriously?" 

Your sad tone surprises him. 

"I- No, I'm kidding," he says, scratching the base of his throat, friendship bracelet his only adornment.

His nervous itching makes you even more worried. 

"If you did wanna do that, you can talk to me-" 

He baulks, tongue poking out past his lips as he licks the corner of his mouth. "Thanks, sweetheart," he says, pet name like a kiss. It sounds silly but it really feels like one, right in the centre of your chest. "But I'm fine. Promise. It was a bad joke." 

"Okay," you say, letting your suspicion shine through. You hold his eyes. 

You haven't known Eddie long. It feels like you met yesterday, though really it's been two or three weeks. You fit together in a way you hadn't expected and adore more than you can articulate, two funny puzzle pieces.  

"Well, I just wanted you to know. I like being your friend, I don't want you to disappear."

He laughs and licks his lips, a rough, chesty sound. "I don't want you to disappear either." 

Tires crunch outside, a shushing sound and then the sharp shriek of a jeep being put into park. Eddie perks up considerably, his shoulders straightening. 

"Hey, Chief," Wayne calls. 

Trailer walls. Basically made of cardboard. 

"Hey, Wayne. Where's the kid?" 

You can't hear what Wayne says after that, words stolen by the TV. 

"Is that Chief Hopper?" you ask, trying to catch a glimpse of him through the mostly shuttered blinds. 

"Yeah, he- He's friends with Wayne." 

"Why's he wanna know where you are?" 

"'Cause I got into so much trouble." 

You bite your tongue. His tone is hard, not stern but almost, and you realise you've overstepped as you usually do. You want to apologise but you don't want to pick the wound, eager to gloss over and make him smile again. 

"It's pretty cool, isn't it?" you ask him.

"What?" 

You spread your legs wider to slide onto your thighs and make him the taller one again, legs bent in a 'W' shape. "Coming back from the dead! First Will Byers, then Hopper." 

Something surfaces in his expression. An irony. 

"The undead," you croon, aiming for a smile, a laugh. 

He cracks. "The undead," he agrees, smiling in bemusement. His eyes are a funny shade of brown. 

—

Eddie shoo’s you home early that night but tries to do it kindly. He feigns exhaustion, a facade that's difficult to uphold when his entire body is thrumming with want. If there's one thing Eddie hates about being a vampire (there are literally hundreds of things he hates, but this one's special) it's that he wants to hurt the people he likes a thousand times more than the people he doesn't. 

He can't explain it. Your blood is more appealing than any lonesome stranger's. Your pulse is practically music to his ears when you sit beside him. He'd kill himself before he ever hurt you, though. Or that's what he likes to think. Whether he has that amount of control is debatable. 

No. He would kill himself before he hurt you, or Wayne, or any of his friends. 

Steve can see the way that he's feeling on his face. 

Hopper's delivery set to one side, a tall glass with blood congealed in a sticky ring at the bottom, Eddie curls under his huge quilt and tries not to pass out. Blood sate feels the same as a thanksgiving food coma. It's awesome. 

He hates how good it feels. 

"Stop feeling guilty," Steve says. 

"He doesn't look guilty to me," Dustin says beside him, taller than the last time Eddie had seen him but still miles off of Steve's tall stature. He's changed his hat again, this one a garish green. It's not a good look. 

"He looks like he's napping," Robin says, delighted. 

"Can you guys go home?" Eddie asks. 

"Shithead." 

"What Steve means to say," Robin corrects, grinning her huge, catching smile, "is that no, we aren't going home. We brought games." 

"I don't wanna play games." He does. Eddie needs the distraction, because eventually the blood sate will fade and all that will remain will be self-revulsion and a cruel desire to do something awful. 

"I do not care even slightly," Steve says, deadpan, as he sits right there next to Eddie where you'd been sitting before. Steve's nowhere near as soft and he doesn't smell as nice, but Eddie's honestly glad someone is willing to sit next to him at all. 

"Ouch, what the fuck?" 

Dustin looks up from where he's sat himself on the floor. Robin giggles in her seat on the coffee table. 

"Munson, are you fucking shedding? I just got stabbed." 

"They don't work like that. They retract." 

Eddie feels at his broken gums with his tongue. There's a clean incision where his fangs come out and then snap back inside after a time. They're remarkably thin, fitting in front of his natural incisors neatly. 

Steve grumbles, hips lifted and hand searching under his butt for whatever it is that jabbed him. He retrieves exactly what Eddie had been expecting but hadn't had the forethought to prepare a lie about with a shocked gasp.

"Is this an earring? You don't have your ears pierced." 

He swallows, knowing it's a very guilty gesture, and meets Steve's eyes straight on. 

Funny how Steve's hair speaks as much as his expression, bobbing as he nods his head to emphasise each word, "Munson, do you have a girlfriend?" 

Silence. 

"...Not really." 

"Holy shit," Dustin says, sounding extremely pleased. "No way." 

Robin tucks her short hair behind her ears, hands paused in disbelief at her neck. "Actually?" 

"I have a friend," Eddie admits. 

"Thank god," Steve says, dropping your heart earring onto Eddie's thigh. The silver feels extremely hot over his pyjamas, like it's been held in the centre of a blistering hearth. 

"I really thought Steve was gonna have to take one for the team and give you a pity handie," Robin says agreeably, scratchy voice coloured by genuine awe. 

Eddie groans, "Harrington, get this shit off of me. You know I can't touch that." 

"I forgot," Steve lies. "Can you wait? My hands are busy." 

—

He has Steve put your earring between two pieces of kitchen towel and holds onto it. He doesn't see you for a week, and he keeps your damn earring in his pocket that entire time worried it's gonna slip out and brand him at any second. 

Finally, you call him. He pretends he wasn't waiting. 

"Hello," you say, like you're announcing something. 

"Hey. How are you?" 

"Eddie, I need your help. Badly." 

He flinches up where he'd been leaning casually, hard enough to make Wayne jump. Eddie smiles at him placatingly and mouths a poor sorry, turning away to pretend there's a semblance of privacy to be found in such close quarters. 

"Are you okay?"

"I gotta find a rainbow leaf beetle. Do you have a torch?" 

"...What?" 

"They only come out at night, so I'm gonna go look but I don't have a torch that works." 

He relaxes, the lilting cadence of your voice enough to make his whole night. You sound so pretty even through the phone. He suspects you could hold any pitch, deep or high, and you'd still sound nice. 

It's all in the way you — he says this with love — perform the words. You speak like each word you're saying has equal importance, and it's calming.

Even when you say stuff that's nonsense to him.

Right now, you don't sound upset or even worried about not having a torch, simply curious to know if he has one. If he focuses hard (and he's been trying not to, as you deserve your privacy) he can hear you all the way across the park, shifting from foot to foot in your bedroom, carpet crushed under your heels. 

The action makes him think this might be more urgent to you than you'd first admitted. 

"I have a torch." He also has amazing night vision. Like, impeccable. "Can I come help?" 

"You want to?" 

"I'd love to. Are you going out tonight?" He leans back to glance out the window. "The rain is finally stopping." 

"Yeah, tonight! Is that okay for you? We could go tomorrow if you can't." 

You're willing to change your plans now that he's asked to go with you. It's a gesture as lovely as you are. Eddie doesn't think you'd ever think it of yourself; your kindness is so intrinsic you don't notice it, like the fine stitching of a leather bound book. Integral and widely unappreciated.

"That's perfect."

Wayne raises an eyebrow when Eddie relays the conversation. "You're going out in the middle of the night with this girl to… look for bugs." 

Eddie crosses his arms over his chest. "I swear." 

"Be honest with me, kid." 

"I am!" 

Wayne swirls his coke can around in his hand as he thinks, a reluctance evident in his scowl. Eddie knows he's way too old for a guardian's oversight like this but he lets Wayne have a say because Wayne loves him, and Eddie doesn't ever want to put his old man through the turmoil he went through when he ran away. If that means a curfew in his twenties, Eddie's okay with that. 

"If you're going to have sex with this girl, I'd prefer you did it here. You have to treat women with respect."  

Eddie shivers, full body. "Wayne," he groans, covering his face. He can feel his cheeks pink under his palms, that's how quickly his embarrassment rises. 

"I know you're more responsible these days, and you're a grown up. If you want a girlfriend and you want to do adult things with her-" 

"Jesus Christ." 

"- then that's alright. You don't have to fool around outside." 

He drags his hands down on his face, pained. "It's not like that. You met her, you know she's…" 

"Strange?" 

"Alternative." 

"No, you're alternative. She's cooky." 

"Don't," he says. He knows his uncle isn't actually being cruel, so he lets it lie and fights for his own cause. "We aren't messing around. She genuinely wants me to go find these bugs with her. And…" He hates himself. "She has her own place, you know? If we were going to-" 

Wayne seems stricken by the same mortified embarrassment as Eddie, raising a calloused hand in surrender. "Spare me." 

"Thank you," Eddie says, spinning on his heel to hide in the bathroom for a while. It's only when he's sitting on the closed toilet does he realise Wayne hadn't mentioned his more dangerous ailment. For a time, he'd been a normal (debatable) person having a normal (horrifying) conversation with his dad. Not a vampire. Not somebody who ruins everything he touches. 

—

"It's so quiet," you whisper. 

For you, Eddie thinks. 

You're in the forest surrounding the aptly named Forest Hills trailer park, wielding your borrowed torch carefully into the dark. Eddie's following in your footsteps, trying not to smell everything that's on you today and failing. 

You smell like a person as everybody does. Over that is your soap, a faint hint of milk and honey that sticks to your skin even after you've washed it away. Over that is your deodorant, 'unscented', and over that is your perfume, which he likes most. It's a mix of smells, some Eddie doesn't know and some he does. There's lavender, though that might be down to the bunch you'd brought for his uncle wrapped in newspaper, and there's something fruity he can't quite put his finger on, all of it wrapped up in a cloying pairing of vanilla and coconut. 

"Eddie?" 

"What?" 

"Are you okay? You're almost as quiet as the trees." 

If only you knew the trees aren't quiet. 

"I'm alright," he says quickly, catching up to you where you stand a few feet ahead. "What are we looking for?" 

Best change the subject. How to explain he'd been smelling the notes of your perfume? 

"They rest on tree trunks. You have to be careful, any sudden sound or light will scare them away. But if you flash the torch on them, they shine like oil stains." 

He loves when you talk. "Where'd they come from?" 

"Place called Snowdon. They're so rare, they think there's only about a thousand alive there." 

"Well, how did they get here?" 

You laugh under your breath, so quiet he would've missed it if he wasn't enhanced. "I don't know. How do beetles get to different places?" 

"They fly?" 

A twig crunches under your shoe. 

Eddie tips his head to the side, thinking. "If there's only a thousand, how-" He stops, your circle of torch light growing further and further away. "Are you sure that they live here?" 

"No, but if they do we'll be the first to find them." 

"So they've never found any out here? In- In the midwest?" 

"Not yet. Where'd you go?" 

He shakes his head in an affectionate disbelief. "Right behind you." 

You search in silence for a while. Eddie wishes he could say he was mad, or even mildly annoyed, wishes he had even the slightest regard for his own time, but really he thinks any time with you is time well spent. Especially if it's helping you do something you want to do. Whether you find your rainbow leaf beetle or not, he feels better knowing he's out here with you to keep you safe and in company. 

Conversation is sparing. He doesn't mind. Your footsteps fill the sound and he finds even that stupid detail charming, the crunch, the pick up. His own are silent, a rare advantage to his terrible affliction. 

"Any other beetles you want me to keep an eye out for?" he whispers. 

"I'm not sure…" You turn to face him, torch pointed at your shoes. Rubber toes touched together, you lean in until you're all he can smell. Perfume. Blood. "If you see any cool spiders, too." 

"You have the mason jar?"

"You know I do." 

More than you realise, he thinks. The glass clicks in your bag. 

There's enough light reflected to see the most minute details of your face. Your nose, the circle of your irises but not their colour. He suspects Eddie from early '86 wouldn't have been able to see hide nor hair, and it wouldn't shock him if you were technically blind right now.

"Thanks for coming out with me. I was gonna ask you." 

"Yeah?" 

"Yeah, but I didn't want to come on too strong." He can sense your smile even though he can't see it. It's in the way your breathing deepens. "I know I can be a lot to deal with." 

"Who told you that?" 

"What?" 

Eddie doubles down.. "Who told you that?" he sounds heartbroken. 

He kind of is. Yeah, you're weird — Who cares? Who isn't? — but you're not a lot to deal with. He doesn't 'deal' with you.

"Everybody tells me that. All the time." 

"Everybody's stupid." To say it so loudly, scathingly, is sweet. It's therapeutic. "They are. This whole town is stupid." 

Your fingertips touch his thigh. He's willing you to turn the torch up and see his face, because he has a lot of feelings on display that he isn't brave enough to say out loud. 

"You never make me feel stupid," you say softly. 

"You're not." 

You giggle breathily at his vehemence, fingertips pressing in with a touch more pressure before you pull away and shine the torch deep into the trees. 

"This whole town is stupid," you mumble. "But not you." 

He thinks of his friends who are definitely stupid, but he loves anyways. He's about to add them to the not-stupid (subjectively) list when he remembers Steve's discovery: your earring burning a hole in his pocket. He'd been carrying it for long enough now to forget all about it. 

"Hey, I have something for you." 

"You do?" 

"Don't get too excited. It's not a gift." 

He digs in his pocket for the tissue paper wrapping and hisses in shock as the silver plating of your hoop graces his index finger. You shine the torch at him. His eyes ache like he's been stabbed and he slams them closed, hand pulled to his chest. 

How embarrassing. 

"Eddie, what happened?" you question loudly.

He winces at the sudden overstimulation. Slowly, he blinks, and finds you staring at him in a worry that softens every feature, even your nose. He doesn't know the logistics. 

"It's okay. Stabbed a paper cut on the back. Your earring's in my pocket, the heart?" 

"The hoop? I thought I lost it." Your worry turns to confusion and then melds into joy. You step forward and fish in his jacket pocket for your earring. 

"Steve found it." 

"'The hair'?" 

"Yeah, the hair." 

You both laugh and yours heightens when you find the earring, pulling it out like a knife to be brandished. "Yes." 

"I meant to tell you a dozen times that I had it." 

"You're the best." 

There's a crunch of wood somewhere to the left like something heavy falling over.

The forest sprawls in every direction and the trees tower, their presence looming as skyscrapers. The wind ruffles the topmost branches and their trunks groan with pressure. It's enough to freak Eddie out super sense or not, feeling suddenly like he couldn't protect you. He could hear the individual droplets of drool dripping from a lynx's bloody maw, and he can sense each twig underfoot before he takes his next step, but none of that is going to keep you safe in the face of real danger. 

"Maybe we should head back," he says tentatively.

"Okay. Do you want to come over?" 

His breath catches. "You want me to?" 

"Yeah, we can watch movies, I have leftover pasta." 

That sounds more like what he should've been thinking. "I don't wanna keep you up." 

"What kind of pasta?" he asks. 

The torch flickers. "With the tiny tomatoes. You'll like it, super creamy." 

"How do you know?" 

"You like Alfredo," you say astutely, hitting the torch into the palm of your hand. It flashes weakly, the shadow of the trees flickering and so dark they're violet. 

"Try tightening the handle." 

You turn the barrel of the torch and the light switches off completely. You try to undo what you've done to no success, the sound of plastic rubbing plastic almost as loud as your heartbeat. Your pulse falters and then grows to racing when the light fails to come back on. 

"Eddie," you say, sounding unsure. It's a new sound on you. "I don't know where we are. How are we gonna get home?" 

Your admission is like a dousing of ice water over his head. "You don't know what direction we came from?" 

"No, do you?" 

Eddie wouldn't know if he couldn't hear the sound of the electricity pylon buzzing somewhere to the right. But how can he explain that? "Uh, we were turned around."

You creep to his side and grab his arm with both hands. "Are you sure?" 

"Hey," he says gently. "Hey, it's okay. I know where we are. We'll be fine." 

"Are you sure?" you ask again. 

"I'm positive." 

You take a deep breath that doesn't erase your shakiness, a failed attempt at self-soothing. "I really don't know where we are." 

"You're not afraid of the dark, are you?" 

"Not really… I don't wanna get lost out here." 

"You won't. I know how to get back. C'mon," he prompts, pulling his arm to encourage you forward. 

You let go of him and navigate a few steps by yourself. He weaves through the trees, waiting for your heartbeat to slow. 

It doesn't. He opens his mouth to reassure you again when you gasp, kicking your foot against a root and tripping. You barely fall, catching yourself on the trunk of a tree, and Eddie remembers himself. You can't see the trees. That's why you're worried. You can't see anything. 

Then the smell of blood hits him like a freight train. 

—

Your hand stings where you caught yourself, palm scraped down against harsh bark. 

"Shit," you mumble. 

You're panicking badly, and you're confused as to why Eddie isn't. Not only was it fucking stupid of you to come out here with only one torch, it was stupid of you to assume you'd remember what way was home. It was stupid of you to come here tonight for that stupid beetle, and stupid of you to drag Eddie along. You're an idiot, and now you're bleeding. 

Your eyes sting with tears, pain like a popped seal. I'm so stupid. 

"Hey," Eddie says, his tone silky soft, "you're okay. Let me help you up." 

You hold your hands out. 

"Eddie, this is weird." Hopefully he understands that weird means scary.

He takes your hands, fingers closing slowly over your bloody palm. His breath is loud as he pulls you up toward him like he's panicked but his grip stays kind, and you abandon the notion when he rubs over your knuckles with his thumb. "It's alright." 

He doesn't sound the same. 

"Eddie, we can't see." 

"We'll go slowly, okay? I'll put my hand out and we'll walk around anything that gets in the way." 

"Yeah," you say hurriedly, heart bump-bump-bumping against your ribcage. 

He keeps one hand, the injured one, and starts to drag you slowly through the trees. His grip tightens as you go until it starts to ache, until it feels like it might bruise. 

"Ouch, Eds. You're hurting me," you say, going for a lightly teasing tone and missing the mark. 

Instantly, he eases off. "Sorry, sweetheart. You hold onto me, alright?" 

You do as he'd asked, hand clinging to him as he leads. He doesn't squeeze you again, walking slowly as he'd promised, and the closer you get to the edge of the forest the clearer it becomes. Light pollution from the centre of town leaches through the trees like water trickling from an overflowing basin. 

His second hand is in his pocket. 

"Here," he says after you've traversed to the very edge of the forest. "There's the park. We're bona fide explorers." 

He looks out toward the park and you look at the side of his face. Something isn't right. Something uncanny. 

You drop your gaze from his face to your joined hands. They come apart, blood smeared in both your palms like two halves of a dripping heart. 

— 

There is something weird about Eddie. As a residential freak of Hawkins you think you're an authority in this, and you don't feel guilty for judging him. Your brain can't stop going over your night in the forest. For days you play the scenes back and for days you lose the details. You forget how the wind had tousled his hair, how he'd smelled, what he'd said. 

You remember the way he'd squeezed your bloody hand. You remember the way he'd spoken, strained. 

Not strained like he didn't want to comfort you, he had, but strained. 

Restrained. 

You're poking at the shallow cut half-healed now in your palm at work when a dude walks in, very tall, handsome, and gunning straight for you. 

You straighten your badge and hide your bracelet heavy wrists behind your back, receding slightly as he approaches. He slows in front of you. 

You have a light bulb moment. 

"The hair," you say.

He scowls. "He told you that, huh. Typical." 

"You're Steve?" 

"That's me." Steve crosses his arms across his chest, his back to a booth, your back to the diner bar. "You're Eddie's new friend." 

"What counts as new?" A month and a half doesn't feel so new to you. 

"Trust me, you're new." 

He has the strangest patch covering the outside of his left wrist, the same peculiar scarring that you can see on Eddie's waist when he reaches for a glass out of the kitchen cabinet. You don't ask because you're not a dick no matter how curious you find yourself, but it makes your heart skip. What is that? You'd assumed Eddie's was road rash. Now you're not so sure. 

He tucks it under his arm. 

You meet his suspicious gaze. 

"You want coffee?" 

"No." 

You kick your foot, shoe sliding over the shiny waxed floor with a squeal. "Is Eddie okay?"

"Did you want to come to a party next Friday?" 

"No," you say honestly. "Like a cult?" 

"What?" 

"Are you initiating me into your cult?" 

He finally smiles, eyes creased with amusement. "I'm inviting you to our club." 

"Club where you chew on each other?" 

You look pointedly at Steve's wrist. 

"No. Club where we play board games and drink jiffy pop. Come or don't, doesn't matter." 

"If it doesn't matter, why are you asking me?" 

It's a strangely intense conversation to have this early in the morning. Patrons chatter about work, coffee gets poured. The diner smells of syrup and sugar and bitter cold-press. You're both in work apparel, both refusing to move back. If this is some kind of shovel talk then that's fine, and if it's a test you're determined to pass, even if Eddie's been super weird lately. 

"I'll come if you promise not to eat me," you say. 

"It's really not that kind of club." 

—

"I had the weirdest visit in the entire world today," you declare, stopping in front of Eddie's porch with a smile. 

"Yeah?" he asks without looking up, guitar in his lap and pen scribbling over a lined notebook.

You wait for him to stop before you continue, leaning forward with both arms braced on the porch by his feet. "Steve Harrington came to see me, and he was super mean. You said he was nice." 

He frowns at you. "I told you he was a dick." 

"You like him when you tell me stories." 

"How mean?" Eddie asks, patting the seat beside him. 

You climb up onto the porch and plop down onto the couch, worn leather cold with the weather and damp in the seams. 

You take a strand of his hair and curl it around your finger. "Not really super mean, but he was, like, acting like I killed a baby." 

"He's like that." 

You sigh and lean your cheek against the couch cushion, watching Eddie's stubble move as he tamps down a teasing smile. "He invited me to a party next weekr." 

"It's not a party- Sweetheart, what are you doing?" 

You tickle his cheek with the end of his hair. "Nothing." 

"M'gonna sneeze." 

You tickle him again, fine dark strands brushing over his pale cheek. He's a very ashen guy, you've found. Likely because he barely goes out in the sun and he doesn't eat enough. You draw circles around the apple of his cheek and grin softly at his growing smile, a sweet, silly thing. 

"I'll tickle you back," he warns. 

"Promise?" 

He steals the curl back and tucks it behind his ear. 

"You're not a cannibal, are you?" 

Eddie chokes on air. You startle at his coughing and move to pat his back, palm slapping a steady rhythm into his shoulder. When he calms down you run your hand down the length of his arm, long sleeve t-shirt soft beneath your touch. You linger at his wrist and decide to hold it. 

He drops his pen and your hand travels until he's caught your thumb. He kneads it in his fingers.

"I'm not a cannibal. Why would you think that?" 

"I don't, but you and Steve are in your club, right?" 

"Hellfire wasn't like that," he says heatedly.

"No, not- Not that one." 

He doesn't say anything. 

"You have… He has this scar, on his wrist. Like something bit him, or-" He turns to you and he looks formidable and upset and himself, not mad at you but raw emotion in his expression anyhow. It's gone as quick as it came. 

"When all that… stuff happened," he begins quietly, "we got hurt. A couple of us." 

You drop your head, ashamed at having pried.  "I'm sorry, you don't have to tell me anything else."

"Don't be sorry…" He squeezes your hand and lets it go. "Don't worry about it." 

"Okay." 

"We usually call ourselves a party, these days. Not a club." 

"Do you really play board games and drink jiffy pop?" 

"Sometimes we get really crazy and order a pizza. You should come." 

You realise as he says it how much his wanting you to go had mattered to you. Eddie's your friend, and you don't think that you're going to stay friends much longer.

"You think your friends will like me?" you ask, voice descending to a new kind of gentle. 

He puts down his guitar and his notebook. His full attention is something you've come to really enjoy, not because of the hunger you often see flitting across his face — though that's neat —, but because of the inklings of adoration clinging to his smile when he looks at you. His blinking lashes. He smiles at you and just slows. A usually frenetic boy calmed. 

"Maybe not Mike. Mike doesn't like anybody. Except for Will," he muses.

"What about you?" 

"What about me?" 

"Who do you like?" 

"I like all of them." He juts his cheek toward his shoulder, conceding, " I think Dustin's my favourite. He's funny. He's funnier than I am, and he's the smartest kid I've ever met. And he knows it." 

Your eyes focus on the pink outline of his upper lip as he speaks. It's a pleasure to be this close, and see him in this kind of crazy detail. When you go home tonight you might try to draw him. You'll probably forget.

It's the kind of smile that deserves to be immortalised. 

"I really like your smile," you tell him, hoping it'll last a little longer. 

It stretches. The pink outline turns white. "Shut up." 

"I do. I've seen a thousand different smiles but I've never met someone who smiles like you do." 

"How's that?" he asks, edging toward you, face a mirror in which you can see your own charmed expression. 

"Like you," — you shake your head with your lips parted — "know a secret. Something you won't tell anybody." 

His smile abruptly ends. 

You've nothing if not a talent for saying the wrong thing. 

"A good secret," you amend. 

He picks up his acoustic and gives it an experimental strum. "Maybe one or two," he agrees. 

Relief catches you. You nibble at the inside of your lip and watch his fingers work over the neck of his guitar, tipping your head so you can read the words he's markered over the body. 

"This machine slays dragons," you murmur to yourself. "Yeah? How many?" 

"Just the one." 

"Save any princesses?" 

"Not yet." He plucks at the strings, lost in thought, before turning to you with eyebrows raised. "Can you play?" 

You exhale out of the corner of your mouth as he pushes the guitar into your lap, an arm coming around your shoulder, the other reaching to guide your curled forefinger to the strings. You turn to face him, watching him talk with a growing fondness. 

"It's easy, I swear. We'll do Call Me. Blondie's basic, even a baby could play it." 

He realises you aren't listening and raises his gaze, shiny brown irises stuck on your lips. This close, it would be worse if he didn't look at them. 

You glance at his, an obvious thing, half a wish. If he only lifted his chin. 

Your breath mingles. 

"It's easy," he says again, a murmur of his usual volume as his gaze pulls back up to yours. "I'll show you." 

You wonder if he can hear your heart pounding; it's deafening. You wait, and you wait, and you turn your eyes back to his guitar and clamp your fingers down against the struts so he can't see them shaking with adrenaline. 

—

Eddie sits beside Steve and tries not to admit to himself that Steve Harrington is, horrifyingly, his best friend (along with the rest of the party, obviously). Steve is the closest in age and Eddie can't make excuses (though he tries and tries and tries), Steve understands how much Eddie doesn't ever want to talk about anything that's happened to them, so he talks about literally everything else instead. 

"It was the weirdest pawn shop I've ever been in. They had, like, a wall of combi's playing the same video at the same time but all slightly delayed." 

Eddie blinks. 

Steve turns his head from the TV, having expected a response. "Did you say something?" 

"No." Then, because he's not a dick. "Sorry, Harrington. Want me to sit on your other side?" 

"What for?" Steve says. Not because he denies how he's hard of hearing, but because he denies having conversations with Eddie. 

He does end up moving to Steve's other side with a pathetic excuse. "I can't see the TV." 

Steve doesn't say a word until he's sat down again. "Sorry I was mean to your girlfriend." 

"Yeah, what was that about?" 

"I was cranky because it was early and I don't want her to damage the integrity of the party." He gives equal weight to both reasons. 

Eddie snorts at him. "Since when do you care about the integrity of the party?" Steve barely acknowledges that they are a party. He thinks that's a very nerdy way to say friends. 

"Since always, dipshit." 

"And inviting her to join the party was the solution because…?" 

Steve drinks the rest of his coke and pretends to really care about what's on TV. "If," he begins after a minute, refusing to look at Eddie, "something happens with her, and something happens to you, that damages the integrity of the party." 

"Steve," Eddie says, jaw dropped down to his chest, "do you have a crush on me?" 

"Oh my god," Steve mutters. "Oh my god," he says louder. "I can't stand you." 

To prove his point, he gets up from the couch with a wrinkled nose, stops to tap his shoe gently against Max's where she's sitting in the armchair across from the coffee table, and disappears into his kitchen. 

Steve Harrington cares about me enough to give Y/N the shovel talk. 

He feels kind of great about it. 

But he's not sure your the one who needs warning. 

That night in the forest, Eddie had almost snapped. There are rules to follow if he wants to keep people safe, self-imposed, Hopper-imposed, and he's broken too many with you already, the most important being no close proximity when he's hungry. Eddie doesn't even realise he is hungry half the time. He'll be standing by you and he'll want to touch you, and suddenly it's like he's three weeks in to the month without sating. 

He thinks about kissing you and suddenly he's thinking about biting you, and hurting you, and it's literally tearing him up from the inside out. 

How can he want to do that to you? 

"You look so depressed and pathetic," Dustin says out of the blue. 

Eddie pouts and falls back into the couch, Steve's fancy throw falling onto his shoulder. "I used to like you," he says, taking in Dustin's outfit with a kind of parental approval. He's getting older and it shows, slightly more handsome than he had been — he's kept all his baby weight and it suits him, his full cheeks surrounded by the softest brown curls Eddie has ever seen. The outfit stays immature, a funny t-shirt and ill-fitting pants. 

"Sad. You have a sad face," Dustin says. 

"Go play with your nerd squad, please." 

He doesn't listen, collapsing in Steve's still-warm seat like a cheap tent and crossing longer, thicker arms over his chest. He smiles at Eddie genuinely. "Where's your girlfriend?" 

"No." 

"Where's Y/N?" 

Eddie tips his head so he can see past the coffee table and points to where you're almost hidden, sitting with Robin on the floor by Steve's sideboard. You have a basket of tapes in front of you, the two of you trying to choose what's going in the stereo. Eddie prays for anything but Blondie. 

You will most likely choose Blondie. 

"What does she like?" Dustin asks curiously. 

"Everything, kind of. Why?" 

"I wanna know what to say when I talk to her." 

Eddie smiles at his friend's face, a soft, surprised thing. "I don't know if she knows anything about the radio but if you're happy about it she'll be happy too. She's a good listener."

Dustin picks at a piece of lint on his t-shirt bearing a white and black print of a dog wearing sunglasses. "So you talk to her?" he asks without looking up. 

"I mean, yeah. What else do you do?" 

"With a girl that likes you? Huh, let me think." Dustin laughs and ruins his own sarcasm, pointer finger laid against his chin in a show of thoughtfulness. 

"It's not like that," Eddie says lightly. 

"It could be." 

"Could it? I mean… I don't even know if she'll stick around. And I feel bad 'cos I can't be honest with her." 

"Why not?" 

"Hopper said he would literally put me in the hole if I even thought about it." There's no need to expand. Dustin would know better than anyone what he's talking about. 

He cringes at the thought, self hatred a hot poker down his throat. He must've said it to Dustin a hundred times when he finally came around from his coma (that wasn't a coma, but a death, and then a rebirth). I can't believe I put you through that. I can't believe I put you through that. I'm so sorry. 

I'm just glad you're alive, Eddie. 

And for a while, Eddie hadn't felt the same. The world he'd woken up to was hard. There had been lawyers and grief and guilt and becoming. He doesn't have the words to describe how it feels to become something new, something that needs to hurt people to live, something that will hurt people to live, whether Eddie wants to or not. 

The loss of choice is suffocating. 

Though moments like this with his friends– they don't make it 'worth it', they're just how it had to happen. There isn't a scenario where Eddie could give up. He can't leave Wayne, and he can't leave Dustin. He can live with the grief of what he is if it means other people don't have to live with grief of what he isn't. 

"Eddie, are you okay?" 

He's missed something. Dustin isn't the only one looking at him. 

He curls a hand around his forearm subconsciously. "I'm fine. I think I'm gonna go to the bathroom, actually. Gotta piss real bad." 

"Eddie-" 

"I'm fine, Henderson." He puts on a good show, patting Dustin's arm. His heart, usually so slow these days, has enough life in it to ache. 

He can't have been in the bathroom for five minutes when somebody knocks on the door aggressively. He's expecting Steve, pissed at his disappearance and likely preparing a speech on attention seeking behaviours and how they're hurting the youth of America, so he opens the door with a tired glare. 

He finds you, beaming and pretty, dressed ridiculously nicely for his idiot friends. 

"Hi," you say. He can hear something from Blondie's Parallel Lines playing from the living room, familiar because it's your favourite album. "Any room for me?" 

Eddie moves back. You close the door behind you. The bathroom becomes a vacuum of your sounds and smells. 

"They didn't have any Dio," you say with a smile. 

"I honestly wouldn't expect any different." 

"You could've brought some tapes, your mix from the van," you suggest. "I love that one." 

"Which one?" he asks, and he can't help it, whenever he's with you his voice crops to a dulcet murmur. The urge to speak to you as you speak to him is unconquerable. 

"One with the winking smile on the slipcase. I really like it." 

"You can have it." 

You lean against the sink. "I can?" 

"Mm. Whatever you want." Especially when you look like this. 

You smile at him, your 'thank you' smile, all sticky fondness and mischievousness. He has no idea what you're thinking. 

"'S a small bathroom in a huge house," you marvel. Your voice echoes "Where does he shower?" 

"There's an upstairs bathroom." 

"Two bathrooms? That's-" 

"Audacious?" 

"I was gonna say overkill." 

Your candidness has him shaking with laughter. He clutches at his sides, arms crossed and leaning forward. You visibly take in his appearance, eyes panning slowly over his clean hair. He'd taken care to look like somebody you might want to look at tonight. 

"Why don't you sit down, Eds?" you ask, eyes creased with an unreadable emotion. 

Eddie feels blindly for the toilet lid and pushes it down so he can do as you ask, wondering why you're asking.

"You look very handsome today." 

He hugs himself. "As opposed to every other day, when I don't?" 

You take a step forward, a second, hands playing with the hem of your shirt. Your outfit today is delightfully simple, a pressed black t-shirt long enough to cover the waistband of your pleated skirt. There's an expanse of thigh that makes his heart beat spin out, one longer than the other where your thigh-high is falling down.

He wants to pull it up. 

"C'mere," he says. 

You take that last step between his shoes and he reaches out, getting his fingertips under the elastic of your sock and tugging it upward over the soft fat of your leg. Your hands come up to his shoulders for balance, and you say, "No, you look handsome every day. Today you look very handsome. I made the distinction." 

He covers your thigh with both hands, looking up into your face as you look down. "You look really pretty today," he says boldly, fingers spreading behind your knee. 

"Thank you. Do you like my t-shirt?" 

It's a screen print of Debbie Harry. Eddie tries not to roll his eyes. "I love it, but your dedication to Blondie is seriously worrying, sweetheart." He gives your leg a short squeeze and pulls the most giggly smile out of you yet. 

"Like Madonna." 

"No!" he bemoans. 

You laugh and grow closer, arms on his shoulder, a hand threaded into his hair. "Cyndi Lauper?" you suggest. 

He puts a hand on your waist as you move in for a hug. Your arms wrap around his neck and the tops of his shoulders, cheek crushed to the top of his head. 

He'd ask if you were okay if he thought you weren't. You're not upset or seeking comfort. You're affectionate. You've been getting more and more touchy for weeks, as he has. Stolen touches, your almost-kiss on the porch last week. 

"No, not Cyndi Lauper," he says, his hand skirting around your back to pull you in properly. 

"R.E.M?" 

"God, no. Where are you hearing all this junk?" 

"The radio." 

"Tuned into the wrong station." 

You pet the back of his head. "Yeah," you say softly, "I think I was." 

The hug is shorter than Eddie wants it to be. You make one of your happy sounds and pull away to get your hands on his face, stroking curls from his cheeks with a protective touch. "Handsome," you say, turning your hand to stroke his cheek with your knuckles. "Pretty. You have really big eyes, Eddie, so brown, and so…" You tilt your head to one side, face inching forward. 

He turns his face to suit, to fit, breath held as you close the gap. 

"So pretty," you murmur, and kiss him. 

His hands are limp and then alive, one clutching your hip, one splaying against your chest. He can hear the thud of your heart clear as day — you're bumping with excitement as you kiss him. It's a delicate, tender thing, the party suddenly far away, the music drowned by the sounds of your breathing. You kiss as you talk, as you move, gentle but with bursts of ardency. Your lips are a blissful heat, the tip of your nose smushing into his as you part your lips over his. 

He lifts his chin higher, his neck craned to receive you. He's savouring every movement. Each pause for breath that you take. The feeling of your inhales over his quick-bruising lips. 

Your hands play in his hair so sweetly it makes his eyes burn with an embarrassing amount of emotion. He screws them closed and squeezes up your waist, steadying himself as you feel along his bottom lip with the tip of your tongue. 

You don't get much further than that, seemingly pleased with your own brazeness or perhaps his touch, eyes glowing with mirth as you pull away. 

"Sorry," you breathe, not sorry at all. "You just really looked like someone should be kissing you."

You're flushed. Eddie can practically see the heat emanating off of your cheeks. He can feel it. 

He stands up, your pulse a ringing in his ears. The wet valves of your heart opening and closing. 

"Eddie?" you ask quietly, lifting your head to meet his eyes as he walks you back into the door. 

His gums sting. A click. 

It's a compulsion. 

His hands curl around your elbows, holding you in place. Your eyes are wide with confusion, your lightly swollen lips parted. He can see the tiniest slip of your pink tongue. 

He holds your gaze as he leans in. Your eyelids flutter closed. You wrap your arms around him as he descends, totally trusting. 

He's a meaner kiss than you are. He starts slow but swiftly loses a handle on it, kisses short but insistent, hot presses like little crescent moons against your barely open mouth. 

His hands move up your arms, a near vice-like grip until he finds your sleeves. His fingers slip underneath, hands hungry for your warmth. 

You make the worst sound anyone has ever made as he moves back, like something has been ripped from you. A gutted gasp, near silent. 

He placates as he wades back in. Thumbs rubbing your arms, lips mouthing damp kisses down your face. The corner of your pout, the hill of your chin, the skin under your jaw. Your head tips back against the door with an audible thud. You exhale hard. 

Eddie can't feel his hands. 

Your pulse hammers under his lips. He kisses it once. He can't think. He can't breathe. 

"You're always cold," you whisper, your hands drifting lazily under the fabric of his t-shirt. Your fingertips trail up his spine. "But your lips are warm." 

He kisses your neck, his lips parting slowly, a hair's width a second as he sucks your skin into his mouth gently. It's barely a kiss. He does it a second time. A third. You start to laugh, a golden sound. 

The point of his fangs touch your skin and you stop. 

Eddie closes his mouth abruptly. His hand leaps to your neck and he feels your heart skip as he holds you still. "I'm sorry," he says, nose rubbing over the damp spot he's left behind, your teased skin. 

Your heart hikes again. 

"I'm sorry," he repeats. He pulls away, an agony. 

"It's okay," you say. Your breathlessness says otherwise.

Eddie takes as many deep breaths as he can stand, wanting to clear his head and filling it with you instead. Your everything; your smell, your skin. Your limp hands against his back. 

"I didn't hurt you, did I?" he asks when he gets a look at you, your unreadable expression. He takes care to keep his head angled down so you can't see the lower half of his face. 

"I don't think you could." 

You cup his cheek in your hand and he leans into it, his weight against yours.

"I wanted to tell you something," you confess. 

"What-" He licks his lips, wincing when his fangs slide into his tongue and scrape grooves across his taste buds. "What was that?" 

"I know you…" You pause, fingertips rubbing at his cheek.

Does she know? Eddie thinks, horrified. He hadn't realised how scary waiting could be. A thousand worries condensed into a handful of seconds. Does she know?

How could she not?

You press your palm to his cheek with more insistence. "I don't want you to think you have to hide anything from me. I know you have scars," you say, fingers sliding into the soft baby hair at the back of his neck. "You don't have to cover up. You don't have to cover any of it." 

"I won't hurt you," he says, trying to convince himself. 

"I know." 

-

You stay a while longer. Eddie's friends pretend that you hadn't been alone in the bathroom for an inordinate amount of time together. You thank them all silently and less so, trying to talk to as many of them as you can. 

There's Lucas, who's really, really nice, and his girlfriend Max, who's less so. She gives you an unimpressed look through her thick-lensed glasses, but you compliment her crutches and she comes around. 

There's Mike, who actually isn't anywhere as bad as Eddie had described him. He's not frosty or standoffish, he's sweet and he asks questions. There's a girl with him that you don't catch the name of, and a boy on her other side. 

There's Dustin, who you adore immediately, Robin, who you adore more, and then there's Steve. 

Steve offers you a pretzel like you're more than familiar. He strolls right up to you with a bowl of them in hand and doesn't leave until you've eaten half of them. 

There's a couple of people you don't manage to talk to at all, and you feel guilty about it all the way home. 

"What if they think I'm rude?" you ask, tired eyes locking onto the stereo system. The time blinks analog in the dark, 12:59AM. 

"They don't, don't worry about it. You have lots of time to get to know them, anyway." 

You hum and turn to his face, indulgent because you know he can't look back. "You're not too tired to drive, are you?" He's spent. Yesterday had been one of his bad days. 

"I'm fine." 

"You say that all the time," you observe, dropping your cheek into the passenger seat's headrest. 

"I'm fine all the time." 

"Liar." 

"Nuisance." 

You huff a laugh through your nose. The strands of his friendship bracelet, the small beads at the ends, swing like pendulums in the gap between his arm and the steering wheel. You can see the rough skin of a scar creeping out from under his sleeve. 

"Mike was really nice," you say. 

"He has a bleeding heart." 

That feels accurate. "He reminds me of you." 

Eddie rolls his eyes. You feel for every detail, the strange tension between you like a gaussian filter over everything. He's gorgeous in a horrific way, heartbreakingly pale, eyes dark as pitch, hands restless. They squeeze alone the wheel, thick fingers curling tight until his knuckles are stark white. Running down the back of his hands are veins like rivers. They're more purple than green. 

"Eddie," you say, playful, a tiny bit insecure. 

"What?" 

"Wanna stay the night?" 

His hand moves forward on the wheel like he's revving a motorcycle, the tendon in his wrist rising to the surface. He clenches. "Not sure it's a good idea." 

"Just to sleep. It's late." 

"I don't know if I can sleep next to you." 

You don't wanna say please. You don't want to ask Eddie to do anything he can't or doesn't wanna do. 

He pulls up outside of your house with his mind already made up. He gets out of the car and you follow his lead. He locks it, shoves the keys in his pocket as you join him on the path up to your porch. 

He's been in here enough times to know what it looks like, but for some reason you find yourself checking his face, worried about what it is he thinks of your things, all your mismatched trinkets, your stained glass lamps, your life as you let yourselves in. He ducks through the beeded curtain into your bedroom wary that they'll get tangled in his hair like they sometimes do. 

"Do you wanna call Wayne?" you ask, gesturing to your telephone on the right hand side, nestled between a stack of books and a cup full of coloured pencils. 

You pull your knee up to your chest and unlace your shoes one at a time. Eddie punches the number into the phone and holds the receiver to his shoulder to do as you're doing. It takes him less time to pop his sneakers off than for you to get out of yours. He's just taken the phone back into his hand when Wayne picks up. 

"Wayne?" he asks softly. "Didn't wake you up, did I?" 

You can't hear his response. 

"I'm gonna stay with Y/N tonight. Yeah, we had a good time. Yeah…" His eyes drift to you as you peel out of your thigh highs.

"Yeah, I'm still here. What?" He meets your eyes and it feels accidental, because he throws his eyes to your bedsheets and turns his face to the wall. "No," he says firmly. 

You scrape together something to wear for bed and some fresh underwear and leave for the bathroom, telling yourself that nothing is gonna happen so don't get your hopes up but not wanting to get caught out if it does. You freshen up, brushing your teeth and washing your face.

You stare at yourself in the mirror and wonder if you should've left your face-powder and your mascara on. Maybe even the skirt. You'd looked nice and pretty for the party. Now you look like yourself, still pretty but without those extra touches. Will he care? Does it matter? 

You debate your pyjama pants considerably. 

There's a lot happening. 

Eddie is… Eddie is something else. He's different, you'd known that for a long time, and his kiss had confirmed it. 

He's something out of a science fiction book. 

Well, nobody's perfect. 

Whatever he is, he'd kissed you. You'd kissed him and he'd responded, he'd come back for more, and now he's sitting in your bed when he could've gone home. You bring your hand to your neck and crane to one side, fingertips poking at your unbroken skin. His hickey's haven't even bruised. 

You screw the pants up and drop them into your laundry basket. You take off every piece of jewellery on your person. 

"Do you wanna use the bathroom?" you ask from behind the beaded curtain. "I left a new toothbrush for you on the sink." 

"Yeah, desperately, I…" He takes you in as you emerge. Fresh-faced, bare-legged. As naked as you've ever been in front of him, physically and otherwise. 

Eddie meets you where you're standing. He's ditched his jacket, and for the first time since you met him you can see the full length of his arms.

"You're not wearing your bracelets," he says, looking between your bodies. His hand twitches toward yours. 

"You have tattoos," you say. 

"They were better, before." 

There's a misshapen mess of black splodges near the crook of his elbow broken up by scar tissue. One arm is less scarred than the other, an almost perfect flank of white skin. 

"Is that a puppet? He's super spooky." 

"Mh-hm." 

You bring your hand to his tattoo and feel over the skin. It doesn't feel like it's there. Eddie holds your wrist and the two of you move together, your fingertips stroking up until you're wrapped around his bicep. 

Eddie brings his free hand to your collar. His index finger straightens, encouraging your chin up so he can ease forward and kiss you. He's firm, eager, and your lips curl up into a smile underneath it. He turns his head to the right and you fall left, smile worsened when you feel his own start to form. 

He nudges your nose. You take it for a telling off and laugh. "Sorry," you apologise, kissing his top lip. 

"You're making this difficult," he chides. 

Despite any sternness, Eddie loosens his grip on your wrists to slide his fingers between yours, pressing your joined hands to your chest. He leans back down and he's careful, almost methodical in the way he kisses. Chaste pecks, hot and precious as tiny stars. 

You reach for his waist. 

Eddie kisses you a final time and steps back. "I'll be back," he promises. 

You lower your chin, flustered and perplexed by his sudden departure.

Walking around to the right side of the bed, you click on your bedside lamp — a beautiful glass and foiled contraption that throws dainty stripes of stars and hearts over everything close in the dark — before climbing in. You sniff one of your pillows experimentally, trying to remember when you last changed the bed. You decide they're acceptable even if they really smell like your hair oil and flip them around to be safe, plumping them up with your hands.

You've curled up on your side and almost succumb to your fatigue when Eddie returns, bringing with him the smell of spearmint and a fuzzy feeling in your stomach as he shuts off the light and sits on the opposite side of the bed, facing you. The hair around his face is damp with water, baby hair's limp. 

"I'm sorry I don't have anything for you to wear, I-" Youre cut off by your own gasp as Eddie kisses you, his hand on your neck, his nose bridge sliding into your own. You hadn't been expecting it, and it's no less dizzying than any other kiss he's given you today. 

"It's okay," he murmurs lowly, lips pressed to your lips, "have to wear you, is all."  

You huff a laugh into his mouth. "I swear I'm always laughing when I'm with you," you muse as Eddie dedicates himself to your bottom lip. You cup the back of his head. "You're amazing." 

Eddie groans and eases back. "I'm not good with words, sweetheart. To tell you how I feel about you." 

You push one of your legs toward his knee. "...You can show me." 

He shifts in the bed until he can lean over the entirety of your chest, hands cupping your face and lips poised hovering over your own, a millimetre of space between your mouth and his. "Okay," he says quietly.

He dips down. You can feel his bottom lip tremble, and then he's kissing you too hard to feel it anymore. You wrap loose arms around his back. 

"Are you sure?" you whisper to him. 

He rests his nose against your cheek, eyes closed, drawing the tiniest left to right. "I want you," he reassures. 

"And you're okay?" 

"Yeah, sweetheart. I'm okay. Do you want to?" 

"Yeah. More than anything." 

Another loving kiss against your cheek, Eddie moves down, down, down. "Tell me if I do something you don't like," he murmurs, top lip dragging and leaving a line of dampness to the base of your throat. 

He adorns the canvas of your neck in half-moon contusions, big hands caressing your shoulders, your chest. You hold your breath as his fingers pass over your nipple, fighting to keep in any embarrassing sounds. 

Eddie disagrees with his plan of action. You shiver as he brings his lips to a close and his bottom teeth scrape upward, as he pulls his head up and says, "C'mon, angel, breathe." 

He follows his command with a manipulative touch, a circle over your nipple that makes you shudder. He kisses you and it feels like a thank you, pressure, a heat as his palm smooths over the bump of your tummy to your thighs. He squeezes the outside of one and for a while you can kiss him back, and then he pulls your thighs apart and you break away. Eddie follows, kisses you even when your reciprocation is weak. 

He pushes your thigh flat to the bed. 

You feel the heat of your excitement start to grow. Your stomach aches with the want to be touched. 

"You're like a space heater, you're that warm," Eddie says, hand coasting down the inside of your thigh. He squeezes until fat melds under his fingers. "Are you scared?" 

His whispering in your ear, his hand as close as it is to where you want it, it winds you up like a coil. You sigh as his thumb strokes the edge of your panties, sound coloured by an awful, devouring desire. 

His face presses further into yours in reaction. 

His touch is like the tide. He wades in, away. His thumb strokes inward over something soft and then his whole hand moves back to your thigh. 

"Teasing," you utter. 

"A little… Why, is there something you want me to do?" 

His clueless whispering is infuriating and exciting at the same time. Your heart races and you can't discern if it's more lust or love.

"Touch me," you plead, pouting, knowing he's a pushover.

Anticipation stabs like a needle in your tummy as he slides his palm over your cunt completely. He rubs a careful, almost casual rhythm into your panties with the breadth of his fingers, lips kissing a lazy stripe up to your forehead, where he rests his face. You both watch his hand move past the valley of your rising chest. 

"M'gonna pull these off, yeah?" He sits up, fingers pushing under the sides. "Lift your- yeah, thank you, sweetheart." 

You buzz with his pet names, his soft voice, the feeling of your panties sliding up to your knees and his gentle exhale. You swear you can feel it fan over your slit. "Shit…" he moan, pulling at your spread cunt. 

He looks like he's in pain, eyebrows pinched together and murmuring curses as he circles the wetness gathered at your entrance. You turn your head searchingly as he starts to ease his index finger inside your heat, a gentle probing. 

One becomes two. He muffles your sighing with firm kisses, amorous praises, "That's it, baby, relax," as he works you open, fingers wet with slickness but not enough. He changes his position, pushing his middle and marriage finger inside and curving as his thumb slides up your slit looking for the bead of your clit. 

Slow, slow circles. "There, huh?" 

You shiver as he pushes in deeper, fingers as far as they can go. He spreads them wide, drops reassuring kisses all over your face when you keen. It's so new to have him kiss you at all, and to have him touching you — you're melting into nothing right there in his hold. 

"I got you. Tell me if it hurts, okay?" 

"Want you to- I want you to fuck me," you murmur, arms wrapping around him so you can hide your face in his neck. 

"Fuck. Fuck, baby. Gonna fuck you just as soon as I can fit," he murmurs back, sinking three of his thick fingers into your snug cunt. He pulls wetness out with every thrust, a line of slick dribbling down onto the sheets underneath. He wipes it upward and pushes it back inside, his chest heaving. "Y'so tight, gotta take my time. Take our time." He rubs his nose against your head until he can kiss the highest point of your cheek. "Make sure you can take it." 

"I can." 

It doesn't bear repeating how quietly you're speaking, a mouthing inaudible under the wet, rhythmic thud of Eddie's pinky finger slapping your sticky cunt as he ups the pace of his finger-fucking. 

"I don't think so," he coos, pulling his fingers from your cunt and making a show of spreading them wide. Your slick ribbons between them, almost invisible in the dark. "Ruin your sheets before any of that, maybe." 

Eddie sits up and gets his hands under your armpits. You laugh as he tugs you up so your shoulders are on top of the pillows, but you don't have time to be confused. He quickly moves to kneel at your feet and pulls your leg over his shoulder, your back lifting unevenly from the sheets. 

He starts with a sweet kiss pressed to the skin closest to his mouth, your lower thigh, and then works his way up, open mouthed, barely kisses at all until his hair whispers against your sensitive cunt and he's nipping at the stripe of skin between your thigh and the place where you most want his attention. 

"Pretty," he says into your damp skin, lips shining. You reach down to stroke his hair behind his ears, worried he's gonna get it dirty. 

He looks at you from between your thighs, his eyes dark in the dim light, their lashes long and soft where the outermost flutter into your skin. He's lovely. 

He holds your gaze as he pulls back to your inner thigh. "Pretty everywhere," he says salaciously. 

His lips part over your skin and you think he might bite you, a bruising hickey, but he pushes you down flat to the bed by your hips and kisses your clit, a simple kiss. Your fingers weave deeper into his hair. Your fingernails scratch lightly against his scalp, every tiny lick or kiss reflected in the minute tightening of your hands. 

He goes slow, mouths down, kisses wetter and wetter as he reaches your entrance. "Poor girl," he murmurs, hands pulled down to further scandalise. He sinks two fingers inside and laughs into your cunt. You squirm. 

"What happened? You're dripping on my fingers." Your thighs draw closed around his head as he curls his fingers against a soft spot.

"Eddie, can you-" You swallow. "Please. Please." 

He pries your thighs open and rubs them soothingly, lapping at the heat of your cunt in face of your pleading. His tongue appears broad and flat up the centre of you until he's kissing on your clit, fingers pumping in rhythm. Your fingers work into his hair and he groans, the vibration enough to make you whimper under his mouth. 

He laps at your clit messily and you tip your head back, breath coming in tight pants. You don't know what you say, only how you say it, desperate "please,"s and keening "Eddie,"s. 

His thrusts grow in enthusiasm, fingers rubbing eagerly against something sweet. You pull your legs up and nudge his face to your cunt insistently, thigh shaking as you hold it up. Eddie doesn't need any more encouragement, his pretty pink lips suckling at your clit until you see stars. You make a pained little sound and try to move away from his kissing, startled at the intensity of your high. 

Eddie lets your clit pop out of his mouth with a lewd, slick sound, his hands moving under your thighs and pulling you closer. "Good girl," he says, rubbing his wet face against the inside of your thigh. He inhales hard as you are, though he pauses to kiss your kneecap and pat your leg. "Good girl, sweetheart." 

"I'm sorry," you say breathlessly, hands pulling his hair from his face. Pleasure rolls through you in hot waves. 

"For what?" 

"Tugging on your hair," you explain, shoulder pulled up to your cheek.  

Eddie kisses your tummy lovingly and climbs on top of you to do the same just under your chin. "It’s okay, sweetheart, I like that shit. That was good, huh?" he asks, lips dropping down to yours all wet and warm. 

He's not bragging, he's genuinely asking. 

You nod into his kiss, your hands coming up to his sides. You swear your ears perk up as he unzips his jeans and eases them down, a hand disappearing into the mess of fabric. He moans quietly at the first touch. 

You move his hair out of the way to watch. Eddie tugs at the length of his cock with a cruel hand, a short dribble of pearly precum sobbing down the tip and under his fingers. He spreads it as it goes, the slickness emphasising the ridges and veins of his cock. You can see it throb, if you look close enough. 

He sits back and eases his jeans and boxers down enough to reveal a thatch of curls that brush his hand with every pump downward. 

"You okay?" he asks, smirking. 

You pull your shirt over your head and your chest warms at his adoring smile. "Will you take off yours?"

He doesn't hesitate like you worried he might. He sheds his t-shirt, pulling the fabric over the back of his head and dumping it off the side of the bed. 

You take in his chest and it's abundance of ragged scarring still purpled with newness. He has a tattoo over his heart, a black whorl of legs and eyes. Fine dark hair crawls from the middle of his chest down his navel, joining with the thatch of coiled hair surrounding his aching cock. You shuffle forward and wait with two tentative hands held aloft until he says, "It's okay," before you touch him. You run your hands down the soft slopes of his waist. 

"Does it hurt?" 

"Not anymore." 

"Can I kiss it?" 

He snorts. "Prefer you kiss something else." 

That really makes you laugh. You dot a kiss against his jaw and can't make yourself stop, dropping them all the way to the skin behind his ear. Your hand creeps lower as you go, held to the curve of his tummy. His skin is hot to touch the lower you go, and his stomach feels solid, a heaviness you know all too well. 

"Can I touch you?" you whisper into his ear. 

"Please." 

You drop your forehead against his chest and he brings his hand up to cup the back of your head. His cock pulses as you wrap your hand around it, skin smooth and slick as you palm slowly up and down. You watch in awe as a bead of precum wells at the tip, Eddie's rough breathing loud overhead. 

"Lie down, Y/N," he says, hand moving behind your naked shoulders. 

"What way?" 

"How do you want it, sweetheart? We'll do it whatever way you want." 

You think about it. Whatever way you want. No matter how indulgent, you know he means it.

"Will you spoon me?" 

He pushes you gently and follows behind, dragging your body into his front and angling your hips, cock hot and prodding your back. He gets his hand under your knee and pulls it up, splaying your cunt. You jump in surprise as he pushes his cock through your folds, tip rubbing against the still sensitive bead of your clit. 

Eddie wraps his arms around you, hugging you from behind. "You wanna put it in for me, baby?" 

You reach between your bodies and take his sticky cock into your hand, shifting until the head nudges against your hole. He sinks in inch by inch, arms tightening around your waist and grinding you down onto his cock until you're whimpering. 

You grab at his arms with your hands and tether yourself to him as he starts to rock his hips, his thrusting tender and his face turned into your neck. 

He presses his hand flat to your abdomen, an anchoring point as he moulds your weepy cunt around his length, each slovenly movement into your heat spreading you that little bit wider. 

"Fuck," he says finally, sounding seconds from a black out. "Oh, fuck- You're tight. Gonna fuck you open slow, okay?" 

You're pretty sure you'd let him do just about anything. You bring his hand to your mouth and kiss every white knuckle, every freckle you can see on the back, and when he bottoms out your cover your lips with his stolen hand to smother a tearful gasp.

Eddie's thrusts are spearing in their steady rhythm, a dirty slap ringing with every punching thrust forward. You curl in on yourself and hide your mouth in the sheets, wet pants smothered by fabric. Eddie's grip falls to your hip, where he pulls your body back and forces your cunt open even deeper. 

His cock pushes into your sweet spot sudden and emphatic. You moan and he stills, rutting into that same space without pulling out until you're babbling his name, body knocked forward with every thrust. 

Eddie turns your face toward him as much as he can without hurting your neck, your moans echoing in time with each thrust. "There you go," he says, "wanna hear how good it feels." 

If he cares that you can't answer him he doesn't show it, arm coming up under you arm to grasp at your chest, your breaststroke soft and aching under his hand as he squeezes tenderly. His cock kisses at the sweet spot inside you intermittently; you're dizzy with it. 

Eddie can't keep quiet either, his moans breathy, his breath hissing between his teeth when you clamp down around him. "Fuck," he begs, dragging his cock out of your heat, "fuck, Y/N." 

He says your name like the syllables alone are appraising. 

You can tell when it gets too much for him. He slows. His face drops into your shoulder, and he matches his pace to the wet kisses he leaves behind. Your wetness feels stickying, each of his thrusts snug. 

His breath hitches, ragged pants accompanying every slow push of his hips. "Where's my girl?" he asks, eyes still closed as his hand abandons where it'd been squeezing the bump of your tummy to search further downward, fingers disappearing into your folds, short curls wet with slick. He can't find any purchase. You roll your hips, chase his touch and the pleasure that comes with it. 

He groans into your shoulder. It sounds more pain than pleasure. 

"Are you okay?" you ask, trying to turn in his arms. He holds you in place. "Eddie?" 

"Yeah, fuck, I'm okay." He grinds up into your cunt. "Fuck, you're perfect." 

"Will you kiss me?" 

He does. It's nowhere near the bruising press you'd wanted. It's too careful. 

"Listen," he murmurs, "I'm gonna get you on your front, okay? Gonna make you feel so good," he promises, waiting for you to nod before he pushes your shoulder away from him and climbs up behind you. You lay flat on your stomach and Eddie settles on your thighs, a heavy weight. 

He pushes into your cunt with two fingers first, the new position allowing for a new pleasure. He pumps in and out and swaps his fingers for his cock quickly after, bearing the full weight of his body into your back as sinks to the hilt. 

You both moan in time, hands fisted in the sheets. 

He kisses your neck, lips parted, and his teeth feel so sharp that your heart sinks as it had in the bathroom. 

"Eddie-" you start. 

He pulls away, stops every movement. 

"Eddie," you say again. What are you supposed to say? You both know what he is. 

There's a lull where neither of you knows what to do filled by your too-fast breathing.

"I won't hurt you," he says, hands rubbing up the length of your back and then under. He holds a hand over your heart. He drops his lips to your back. "Do you want me to stop?" 

He must feel your pulse calm under his touch, but he still asks again when you don't answer. "Do you want me to stop? It's okay if you do. You're okay, baby, I promise." 

You steal a pillow from against the headboard and rise up on elbows. Your admission comes weak but completely honest. "Fuck me, Eddie, please... I want you. I want you-" Your murmuring's interrupted by a sharp breath as Eddie starts to move again, the head of his cock pushing into your cunt, a slick, perfect feeling. 

He moans from the back of his throat as his cock pushes into you again and again, hips smacking the dough of your ass as his pace quickens. You hug your pillow tightly, tears popping up in the corners as he ruts deep. 

"Being so good for me," he groans, clamped down on your hip with a vice-like grip. "Fuck, you feel so good. Fucking clinging to me every time I pull out, baby, Christ." His blasphemy is punctuated by a thrust that has you sliding up the bed, sheets wrinkling under your arms. You spread your thighs and wetness pools at your clit as his pelvis thrusts into you, driving pleasure so deeply it aches in your hips.

You moan pathetically and reach back to hold his hand, wiggling your fingers. He takes it in one and presses your arm against your lower back with the other, struggling to maintain a steady pace as he gets close to cumming. You're a babbling stream of sounds as he fucks in deep, swollen sweet spot tapped against mercilessly.

He throws himself back on his haunches, cock dragged out of your heat. 

You pull your legs out from underneath him and curl onto your side to watch, eyes wide as white spurts of pearlescence jump out of the head of his reddened cock and drip down the bumps of his fingers. He leans back, his stomach and thighs tensed with every pump. 

He groans through a smile, moan's coloured by a happy, relieved laughter. "F-uck," he drags, fisting his cock dry. 

He meets your eyes as the last of it slides down onto his stomach. 

You smile softly. "Fuck," you mumble. 

Eddie wipes his hand in his jeans like a fucking hooligan and tucks his cock back into his boxers with a wince, and then he collapses on top of you. He's sort of nice about it, his arm over your shoulder and his face behind your ear. 

"Fucking beautiful," he praises, dropping his head back on the bed so you're face to face. "You're so fucking pretty. So perfect." He kisses you. "You're perfect," he repeats, staring intently into your eyes. 

You pull a hand from between your legs, smelling of sex. Eddie literally couldn't care less if he tried, and he lets you take his face into your hand without complaint. 

He gets his arm under your arm and starts to rub your back. "You want me to take care of you again?" he asks, eyebrows raised gently. "Yeah?" 

And you would let him, you would, but you need to see them for yourself. 

You touch your index fingertip to his lip. 

"Can I see?" you ask. 

He loses his boisterous joy, tamps it down. He realises that he can't lie, that he hasn't been lying, and he nods. You tremble as you pull his lip up over his canine tooth, excited and scared.

A sharp, exceptionally white tooth pokes out of Eddie's gums. You're taken aback, though you'd known exactly what you'd find.

A fang. 

Blood oozes at the gums. 

"You're bleeding," you worry aloud, touching your finger to the dark beading at the base of his tooth. 

Eddie's eyes rove over your face thoughtfully. He pulls your hand away from his lip and sets it on his neck instead. "They always do that. The gum heals, breaks when they wanna come out." 

"How often do they come out?" 

"A lot more since I met you. Whenever my adrenaline spikes, they seem to think it's… feeding time." 

That is a dizzying thing to learn. 

You're not sure how you feel, but you know one thing: he's Eddie. "It's too bad," you say, forcing a lightness that turns real more easily than you expect. "I really want to kiss you right now." 

He strokes your cheek with his thumb. "I really wanna kiss you too. Maybe a small one?" 

You find yourself leaning forward, unafraid. 

He kisses you once, twice, three times, the two of you holding each other's faces and covered in mess. Slick and sweat and blood. The hearts and stars from your lamp spray over his hip and paint him with pinks, greens, oranges, a rainbow cutting over his trim waist. You rest your hand overtop, feel his keloid scars like hills under your fingers. 

"My boyfriend's a vampire," you mutter, bemused at fate.

Eddie blinks at you. "I'm your boyfriend?" 

"Yeah, I think so. Don't you?" 

Eddie pulls you into his chest and doesn't let you go for a long, long time.

-

Your first time watching a blood sate is weird. 

For one, Chief Hopper is firmly against it. He's got his kid with him, the boy from the party that Mike had been so heavily doting on, and if he didn't you might think he was a pretty scary guy. 

"I think this is stupid," the chief says plainly. "I think this is stupid, I think you're stupid," — he points at Eddie where he's sitting sickly in the round couch — "and I think you're plain crazy, kid." He points at you last. 

You beam at him. "People have said that about me." 

His kid laughs. 

"Will," Hopper says tiredly, "go sit in the car." 

"Look, Chief, I know I messed up, okay, but she kind of stuck her hand in my mouth and I didn't really have a choice." 

Wayne looks at you with new eyes. "You did?" 

You nod at him faux-seriously. 

"And what gave her the inkling that you might have had something in your mouth worth looking at?" Hopper says, which is hilarious. You laugh behind your hand. 

He gives you a disapproving look that you completely ignore. If you'd taken notice of disapproval you would've stopped having this much fun years ago. 

"Uh, well, she might have… felt them?" His pitch rises. 

Hopper looks like he's about to blow a gasket when Will says, "What was he supposed to do? Never talk to anyone new ever again?" 

"He did a lot more than just talk to me," you say. There'd been a fixed bike, phone calls, lots of sandwiches, bug hunts, an entire sketchbook full of drawings. 

"I told you to wait in the car," Hopper says.

Will grins and raises his hands in surrender. "Bye," he mouths. You wave. 

Hopper waits for the door to close before he continues. "I get it, when you're a teenager you think your hormones are the end of the world-" 

"I'm almost twenty three." 

Hopper pinches his hand closed. "But you do not understand the danger that you are creating here."

"Like a stake-ing," you whisper, very very quietly. Eddie's the only one who can hear you, and he laughs so hard he snorts. 

"I'm glad you find this funny." Hopper's tone could not imply the opposite any more. 

He hands Wayne a paper bag that audibly sloshes and stalks out, his anger a palpable cloud of steam rising off of his shoulders. Eddie seizes up beside you at the sound, lips parting as his fangs come through. You don't touch him because you value your blood inside your body, only slide away from him and smile. "You okay, handsome?" 

"Kid, maybe the chief is right. We don't know how Eds is gonna act with you here," Wayne says. 

You nod respectfully. You like Wayne, and he knows about all of this stuff more than you ever could. 

"No," Eddie mumbles, putting his hand out for you across the couch. 

You take it without thinking. 

Wayne sighs. You can hear him grumbling as he disappears from view into the kitchen and puts a pot on the stove. There's the sound of a bag being punctured with a knife, a wet slosh. Eddie's grip on your hand tightens. 

You're still fascinated that he even drinks blood in the first place. That's wickedly sickening. Wicked, because it's cool that he's a vampire, with his impressive hearing, senses and smell. But sickening, because if you had to drink a pint of blood every couple of weeks you'd throw up. 

"I read about a new blood-sucker." 

Eddie raises his heavy head. "Another bug?" 

"No, a finch! A vampire finch. They're really pretty, Teddy. They're small and brown with long beaks and they drink blood because there's barely any water on their island." You give him a loving smile. "They aren't parasites. S'just how they had to change to survive." 

He squeezes your hand, this time on purpose. 

"Are you gonna come and have it in here, Eddie?" Wayne asks, one last shot at separating the two of you.

"I'm okay," he says loudly. His eyes trace your smile. "Really." 

It can't be fun to have two people watch you drink a warm mug of blood, but Eddie finds it funny. He keeps laughing every time he brings the rim of the glass to his mouth. 

"I can't do it if you're looking at me," he says. 

Wayne rolls his eyes and looks away. You cover your face with both hands and part your fingers to spy on him through the gaps. He makes it look easy, draining the mug basically in one long pull, though his hunger turns violent as the cup empties. He chokes. Blood trickles down from one corner of his mouth. 

You automatically want to reach over and wipe it away. Wayne grabs your arm before you can and gives you a fatherly look that says, I wouldn't do that if I were you. 

"Shit," Eddie says, slamming his now empty mug down on the coffee table. It makes a grating sound like a ground mortar and pestle. He sits as far back on the couch cushions as he can, nausea clear on his face. 

"Deep breath," Wayne says. 

"Fuck, Wayne." 

"You're aces. Deep breaths." 

Your heart hurts watching Eddie like this. He covers his mouth with eyes closed tightly and breathes hard through his nose. Already there's colour coming back into his face, not a lot but anything is an improvement. He'd been practically grey. 

When Eddie pulls his hand from his mouth blood has spread over his lips and jaw. Your eyes widen.

"I'll get the shower running," Wayne says, slapping his knees as he stands. He stops before the hallway. "Good job, Eddie." 

The boy in question slouches into a ball on the sofa and nods into a cushion. You wait for the sound of Wayne pulling the shower cord that turns on the hot water before you stand up, head tipped to one side. 

"You okay, handsome?".

"Tired." 

"You want a hug from me?" 

"Is anyone else offering?" He opens one eye to peek at you and grins at your distraught expression. "I'm joking, I'm kidding. C'mere, before I start bawling." You sit and then flop onto your side, pulling your legs up next to his. "Such a frowny face." His voice is adorably tired.

"Better than yours. You look like someone from Night of the Living Dead, baby." 

Eddie's arm lies limp like a dead fish over your waist. "Lemme nibble on your brains," he says, words thick as dark honey, eyes closed. "Just a snack." 

You're waiting for someone to pull the rug out from under your feet. No way your boyfriend, your cries at the end of every movie, brings you flowers because he felt like it, won't step on cracks in the sidewalk boyfriend just skulled a glass of O-negative like it was a milkshake. 

You feel guilty as soon as you think about it. He's not confined to all his softest parts and he never will be. He's snarky and angry and loud. He plays guitar like a real rockstar and he doesn't take anyone's shit. He's a survivor. A glass of blood every now and then was never gonna stop him. 

You keep wondering if you should let him suck your blood. It could be hot. It could also probably be the worst idea ever, a relationship faux pas up there with proposing after a month or saying I love you on the first date. 

"What are you thinking about?" he asks. 

You brush the hair out of his eyes with your ring finger. "Embarrassing relationship fumbles." 

"Oh yeah? Like letting your girlfriend watch you drink human blood from a mug shaped like Woodstock?" 

"Least it wasn't Snoopy." 

"God forbid." 

"Is it always like this?" You stroke your hand down his face and rub along his jaw with your thumb. "D'you always get sleepy?" 

"Yeah." He turns his face so your hand covers his mouth. 

You've stopped wearing silver jewellery, your wrists bare besides the endearingly awful friendship bracelet he's constructed for you. Not a friendship bracelet, he'd corrected. You're not kissing other friends, are you? Because that's really gonna put a downer on this whole thing.  

You dip your forehead to his chin and the two of you lay there in silence. You can smell blood, a thick, metallic stick permeating every corner of the room. It's especially strong between the both of you. 

"Do you wanna bite me right now?" you inquire without opening your eyes. 

"Not really. Blood sate kicks in quickly. It's the worst for, like, the first ten seconds after. Now I wanna sleep, but Wayne's gonna make me shower." 

"Maybe I can shower with you." 

"I'm sure he'd jump for joy if you suggest it." 

"Really?"

Eddie kisses your hand. "No," he says with a giddy laugh. 

"I'll pretend I'm gonna sit on the toilet. Keep watch." 

"How will you stop your hair from getting wet?" 

"I'll lean out." 

Eddie laughs even more than he had been, peeling laughter that warms you from the inside out as he kisses your hand again. "That'll definitely work." 

Wayne clears his throat. 

"Shower's hot. I'm going out. For an hour." Eddie perks up. His uncle looks him dead in the eye. "Don't make me regret this." 

And while Wayne had been under the impression you and Eddie were gonna have some grown up fun together in the shower, what you really do is an innocent act of affection: you wash Eddie's hair. 

"You have to lean your head back," you chide. 

"I am." 

"More than that." 

"There's no room." 

You're lucky you both fit. You're freezing standing behind Eddie, the only relief the warm water that trickles down from your hands to your elbows as you draw circles in his scalp, working the shampoo into a fine lather. 

"How did you get blood here?" you ask, scratching rusty flakes from the hair behind his ear. 

"I don't know. It gets everywhere. Like eyeshadow." 

You push your chin over his shoulder. "You wear eyeshadow?" 

"For shows." 

"Really?"

"Is it hard to believe?" 

You encourage his head under the water and rake your hands through his curls, encouraging the soapy water down to the ends with patient hands. "Lip gloss too? Hey, can I do your makeup?" 

"Maybe tomorrow," he bargains. While the shower has helped to wake him up, lethargy remains thick and unshakeable as adamant. 

You kiss the wet ridge of his shoulder blade, picturing his pretty face decked out in dark liners and sticky balm. "Thank you." 

"I haven't worn any in a long time. Haven't played a show in a really long time." 

You wring the water out of his hair and search in the steam for his conditioner. It's mostly empty. "You could put on a show for me. I never got to see you play," you say, shaking it really hard. A dollop collects in your hand and you work the dregs through the ends of his long hair. 

"You want that?" 

"I think you're the best guitar player in the world." 

You're not joking. He's the best, and he plays guitar. And he's pretty good, semantics aside. You love sitting out on the porch with him and listening to him play old rock songs off the top of his head. You could watch his hands move over the strings for hours. 

"If that's the case, I can definitely put on a show. Make-up, costume, stage dives. The whole nine yards. Anything for my girl." 

You roll the ends of his hair between two coated palms and step back. "There. You have to let it soak in for a couple of minutes." 

Eddie turns with a grin, angling his chest and hair forward, away from the stream. 

"Whatever will we do?"

You wipe an escaped streak of blood off of his bottom lip and smile. "I have no idea." 

You kiss. Eddie leans down and you move up, damp noses glancing off of each other. You're used to short kisses, never enough to make his heart race in case it prompts an unnecessary appearance of his fangs, so when Eddie encourages your lips apart to wade in deeper you pull back questioningly. 

"Blood sate. I'm 'sated'. They won't come out." 

Your jaw drops. "For real?" 

He shakes his head with a pleased smile. "For real. Kiss me sick, sweetheart." 

You throw your arm around his neck and drag his face to yours, kissing with an ardency that both surprises and amuses him. He laughs into your open mouth until suddenly he's not laughing at all, only breathing, pushing against you with the same urgent force and the same adoring smile. 

"Does this mean you can give me a hickey?" you ask enthusiastically. Eddie has yet to give you a proper love bite.

He leans back under the show spray and pulls you in with him, laughing when you dissolve like rice paper in his arms, finally warm. There's never been a sweeter sound. 

/\^._.^/\

thank you for reading! | my masterlist | my halloween party

if you enjoyed reading his, please consider reblogging. i promise it makes a huge difference

[eddiexfreakxmunson]

Crop Top

Pairing: Eddie Munson x F! Reader

Genre: smut, reader has nipple piercings, Pervy!Eddie

MDNI

TW: NON-CON, DUB-CON, somnophilia, smoking, cursing, dry humping, masturbation (male), Eddie is a virgin and a perv; IF YOU DON’T LIKE THESE, DON’T READ THIS PLEASE!

Word Count: 3,055

Summary: Most of the time Eddie can keep his hands to himself when he’s around you, his childhood best friend. But as you both grow older, his restraint is tested. What’s a guy to do when a golden opportunity to finally get a taste of you presents itself to him in the form of a tiny cut shirt?

Eddie nearly has a conniption when he sees you’ve cut the old band t-shirt he let you have.

When you’d gone hiking around Lover’s Lake earlier in the week, and he’d ‘accidentally’ thrown you into the water in your white shirt, he’d offered up the spare in his van as a peace treaty, eyes glued to the pretty pink bra you’d been wearing underneath, even as he had apologized profusely for getting you soaked, knowing he wasn’t sorry at all.

He doesn’t even think about it after that. If he was honest, he’d admit that not much else consumed his brain than how fucking good your tits looked with the white cotton of your shirt sticking to them, how pretty the color of your bra contrasted against your skin, how badly he’d wanted to strip you down right there.

He’d never let you know how often he thinks about you like that. Couldn’t risk ruining a friendship that had endured years of school and countless boyfriends and girlfriends that had come and gone. It was always just the two of you, and he liked it that way.

But he’s still a man, and he’d have to be blind to think you weren’t utterly gorgeous. And utterly unaware of how badly he wanted you under him. Naked, preferably crying out his name.

It’s nights like these that ease that ache a little bit. On weekends when your parents are out of town, he can come spend the night like he used to, back when you were both in middle school. With your parents gone, he’s allowed to share your bed, your warmth and smell surrounding him, driving him crazy.

It’s not without its repercussions, though. More often than not, Eddie wakes with your ass pressed against him, a result of all the tossing and turning you do in your sleep, and he has to fight back the urge to give in and wake you up with his cock sinking into you.

Most mornings, all he allows is a few shallow ruts against your ass, biting his fist to stifle his groans before he’s rolling out of bed to fuck his fist in your bathroom, knowing that you’re in the next room, so close but so fucking far.

He’s laying in your bed, enjoying a cigarette when you roll off the bed, mumbling about having to wash your face and change into pajamas before falling asleep.

He doesn’t even really realize at first; he’s just happy to sneak a peek at the muscles in your back and shoulders contracting as you pull your blouse over your head and drag his gaze over your body- the closest he’s ever going to get to having you the way he wants.

It’s not until you’ve turned around that he recognizes the worn gray shirt, only now it’s cropped, the sleeves and most of the armpit also cut out into a make-shift cropped tank top. He sits up straighter at the sight, annoyance rolling through his body.

Sure, he said you could have it, but he didn’t say you could destroy it. He’s about to tell you as much when he stops short, watching you lean over to grab your pajama bottoms, and catches a complete side view of your breast for a split second as the fabric hangs off your shoulders from your position.

He can’t help the way his cock jumps at the sight, and his mouth goes dry, eyes glued to your tits. He’s positive you don’t know how much you’re revealing as you straighten again, giving him a look.

“What?”

“Nothing. Shirt looks good.” he’s quick to respond, blinking away his hungry expression as you give him a sweet smile and pad into your bathroom.

As soon as you’re out of view, the calm facade drops again, and his mind is whirling. Sure, he’s seen you in swimsuits and bras, and that one time in the rearview mirror when you had to change quickly, and he couldn’t help himself from looking.

He knows it’s wrong. Knows it’s messed up how often he fucks his fist to the thought of you, of your pretty lips wrapped around his cock, the pretty sounds you’d make if he–

Keep reading

[jayybear]

holy SHIT this was amazing!!

[sunflowersteves]

the color green || e.m.

summary || Your friendship with Eddie and Chrissy wouldn't be an issue if you weren't head over heals for the damn metalhead.

pairing || eddie munson x fem!reader

author's note || this was a fic idea by my lovely ❤️‍🔥anon and little did they know that i love some jealousy angst fics, i hope you enjoy it!!

warnings || mention of weed, angst, afab!reader, jealousy, smut [18+ only!!], choking, a little bit of somnophilia but not rlly, dom x sub dynamics, switch!eddie, switch!reader, rinding, dry humping, kinda unstable reader, unprotected sex, petnames, MINORS DNI

masterlist

If your imaginative mind had its way, Eddie Munson would be six feet underground at the moment. At least, that was what your glare toward the president of Hellfire Club seemed like to everyone else. 

Although, your murderous intent wasn’t for the reason that most people associate Eddie with.

You, on the other hand, were in love with Eddie Munson. Your vendetta against the metalhead was completely different from the rest of them. 

Usually, people hate Eddie Munson because he’s a freak, an outcast, a loser, and a devil worshiper. They would immediately pin the blame on Eddie for the crazy things that go on in Hawkins, Indiana. They would seek him out to tell him about how his club is some cult that conspires against the government—or something. 

You, though, loved his crazy antics of singing and hopping around. You loved his passion for Dungeons and Dragons and watched him for hours writing a new campaign. You loved the way he hid his face in his hair when he got nervous. You loved the way he tapped his rings on any hard surface. 

You love Eddie Munson.

The main issue was that you and Eddie had a…thing. What kind of thing were you? You had no clue which was driving you up the damn wall. 

It was some unspoken thing when Eddie whispered in your ear that he needed you. It was an unspoken thing when you gave Eddie a blowjob in his beat-up van. It was an unspoken thing when you and Eddie fucked on more than one occasion.

It was the unspoken, unmentioned thing that was tearing you apart, especially since his newfound attention was dead set on Chrissy Cunningham. You watched as Chrissy’s head fell back in laughter at something Eddie had said and threw a french fry at him.

To make matters even worse, it was you that introduced them. You knew Chrissy Cunningham was one of the genuinely—rare—nice cheerleaders out in the world. After you had graduated, she and Eddie were the only ones to actually give a shit about you. So, you were the one that told Eddie to not judge a book by its cover.

And now, you were seriously regretting your actions. The thing is, you didn’t hate Chrissy. Far from it, in fact. You understand better than most people how Eddie could light up a room in a matter of seconds. Hell, she’s your friend, too. A good friend. 

Instead, you placed all of your hatred and ire onto Eddie. Was it deserved? Probably not, but your feelings were too jumbled and fused together. You couldn’t stand the thought of pure, loud rejection from the love of your life, so your mind retreated to a safe space of anger.

“Where did you go?” You scoot back into the booth, which was opposite of Eddie and Chrissy—which burned a hole through your heart, no doubt. 

“I told you I was going to the bathroom, didn’t I?” You winced at the harsh tone you sent Eddie’s way. You hadn’t meant for it to be that cruel sounding, but you’re a bit on edge. 

“Shit, I only asked.” He held his hands up in defense. “What’s got you so riled up?”

You sigh. “Sorry. I-I’m—um—gonna go. I forgot that Robin needed me for something. Enjoy your meal, guys.” You heard both of their protests as you walked away. You couldn’t dare look back or you knew you would immediately give into them.

Jesus Christ, you need to get a hold of yourself and your feelings. How long until they both corner you to ask what’s wrong?

That exact problem of what was wrong was about to send you into a downward spiral. It was like you couldn’t even look or think about the man without your heart exploding into fireworks. 

You were entirely jealous of their requited feelings—more so, jealous that Eddie was smitten for another girl that wasn’t you.

Shit, you really love Eddie Munson.

~~

Ever since that day that you left the diner, it felt like Chrissy and Eddie were inseparable. Your heart split into thousands of little pieces as you watched them hang out. More specifically, hanging out without you. 

His arm was always around her waist, pulling her closer to him. Their smiles were always bright, and their eyes looked at each other like they hung the moon. Goddamn, it was annoying and so thoroughly heartbreaking. 

So, when Eddie invited you to hang out with him at his trailer—alone—you were surprised. You two hadn’t hung out for about two months, and your heart had seriously suffered. Unbeknownst to you, though, his heart suffered too.

You walked through the door of his trailer and sat your bag down near a bookshelf. You could hear rustling from his bedroom, most likely trying to find his pre-rolled weed. You sat yourself down onto the couch, and your shoulders almost felt stiff against the worn leather.

You watched him bounce around as he walked into the room, surprised by his giddiness and excited expression. In his mind, it was super jumbled and filled with nerves at being able to hang out with you again. 

He sits down next to you with a bowl of popcorn and reaches for the remote. He puts on your favorite movie, and that’s when you finally started to relax. Maybe being around Eddie wasn’t as bad for your heart as you thought it was. Maybe there was still something for you to give him even if he can’t give it back. 

Which is exactly why you’re in this situation right now and you didn’t even know when it had happened. Scratch that. Was it even happening now? Were you dreaming?

Amongst the small discussions about life and passing snacks around, somewhere in between, Eddie had kissed you. He kissed you so feverishly and passionately that it knocked the wind out of you, and—fuck—you had missed this. 

Had it been minutes? Hours? Who even knew at this point. 

All you knew was that Eddie’s lips on your neck and his hands on your hips felt heavenly—absolutely cosmic. You were laid down on the couch, back against the cushions with Eddie’s face between your neck. 

He was on top of you, a hand moving around your body as if he was savoring every moment, while the other kept him propped up. His tongue swirled around the already irritated skin from his teeth sinking into your neck. 

You whimpered, hands gripping his hellfire t-shirt. “You like that, sweetheart?” He continued his biting, becoming more brutal by the second. “Mhm? Why don’t you tell me how much you like it, yeah?”

Before you could even answer him, there’s a knock at the door. You both freeze, his own eyes wide with something that almost looked like guilt. You don’t dare to move, too focused on the big reality check that slapped you in the face.

“Eddie? Are you there?” A sullen pit sunk into your stomach at the sound of that voice. 

Chrissy. 

Chrissy was here. At Eddie’s trailer wanting something: drugs, homework, or maybe Eddie. 

While you’re in your own head, Eddie’s looking at you with concern. He opens his mouth to ask you something, but it quickly shuts as the pounding on his door continues. 

Eddie cursed under his breath, “Sorry, let me just do this real fast—”

Before you know it, that little green devil floods through your veins. You grab Eddie and slightly shove him back onto the couch. His eyebrows were furrowed in confusion, and you would’ve thought it was cute if the pure rage wasn’t burning through your system.

“What the f—” The words completely die on his tongue as you’re straddling his waist. You lean in close to him, one of your hands gripping his throat. He let out a surprised whimper as his shoulders tensed under your harsh gaze.

“Try to answer the door, Eddie.” Your jaw is tight, eyes filled with fury, “Try it.” You could feel him gulp beneath your hand, and then he’s biting his lip. 

It would be the biggest lie in the history of lies if he wasn’t turned on by what you just did. You had practically manhandled him onto the couch, and your hand was on his throat. Holy shit. He could feel his cock twitch ever so slightly at that look between your eyes. 

“Is she gone?”

Silence. No bounding on doors, no calls for Eddie, and no jiggling of the doorknob. Absolute silence. 

“Yeah, she is.”

You smirked, fingers squeezing his neck ever so slightly, “good.” 

He lets out a strangled moan as you start to grind onto his hips. You rolled them across his bulge that was poking out from his ripped jeans, and his head rolled back in pleasure. 

“You like that, Eddie?” You mocked. “Why don’t you tell me how much you like it, huh?”

His jaw slacked open, and if it was even possible, he got harder. “F-Fuck, I–” Your hand on his neck squeezed a little, prompting a small moan from him. 

The sound buzzed through your ears, and an almost primal instinct flooded through you. You were getting way too impatient, so you stood up—definitely earning a whine from Eddie. 

You tugged your jeans and underwear down, and Eddie started to do the same—lifting his ass off the couch and shimming them down his legs. Before you could start taking your shirt off, Eddie grabs you by the hips and plops you onto his lap.

“You are driving me fucking crazy, you know that?”

“Fuck, Eddie—” You barely have any time to react before he’s crashing his lips onto yours. His hands are making dents into your hips, and his lips are sucking and biting against your own. The feel of his calloused hands on yours and the wet kisses he was giving you was absolutely addicting. It makes your mind fuzz into warmth.

You break the kiss, looking down to see his hard member pressed against your stomach. You practically drool at the sight. He was big and oh so thick. He smiles, “like what you see, baby?” 

You nod, no longer wanting to wait, and aligned his cock with your cunt. You slide down and grip his shoulder—leaving harsh indents from your fingernails. Your walls were wet and thick—another thing that he missed. “Oh fuck—shit—” 

You started to move up against his cock before coming down again. “Eddie, Oh my god—” His hand went underneath your shirt and molded your breasts around it. You moaned against his cheek, faces just inches away from one another.

“Fuckin’ mine, baby, you got that?” His eyes widened at the aspiration that whispered between your lips. “Say it, Eddie. Say that you’re mine.”

“‘M yours. I’ve always been yours.” His eyes flicker between watching his cock disappear and your euphoric expression with your mouth agape to let out a sultry moan. It was just music to his ears. 

His little confession seemed to send him over the edge because he’s helping you bounce on his cock, a harsh contrast to the man moments ago. Now he was rutting up into you and then slamming you back down onto him. 

“Yeah, I’m fuckin’ yours, you got that? Put that into your pretty little head of yours. I belong to you.” He took your hand and placed it back onto his neck. You whimper as your walls clench, and it almost sends Eddie into a spiral. 

“Yeah, you’re mine, baby—” You squeeze your fingers just a little around the base of his neck and he groans—almost animalistic sounding. You mewl at his cock hitting that sweet, honeyed spot, and you’re almost gripping his neck tighter.

“You gonna cum, sweetheart? You gonna stake your claim on me?” You can’t respond, your mind too focused on the tip of his cock rutting into you over and over and over. “Fuck, Eddie, I’m—”

Your body seizes as you cry out his name—the euphoric feeling flooding each and every five senses until all you can think or utter is Eddie. He’s still fucking into you—relentless with each thrust as he chases his own orgasm. 

“Where do you—”

You whine at the overstimulation, “Inside, Eddie, please—” 

The mere thought of your begging had floated into that space into his bind. Your puffy cunt is pulsating as his tick wet ropes of cum fill you up to the brim. “Shit, fuck, sweetheart—so fucking good.”

You both end up to a slow rhythm until he stops, body relaxing against the sofa. You tap his shoulder gently as you calm down, the only sounds of your chests heaving from the breath leaving your lungs. 

You can’t quite tell the look on his face, something that felt almost odd. He opened his mouth until he closed it again, his hand squeezing your hip. It was as if you would disappear if he let you go. 

“Listen… I–” You try to cut him off with your hand on his shoulder. You knew what was about to come—that loud rejection hitting the base of your stomach. But he shook his head, and that only surprised you.

“I can’t let you leave until you know how I feel.” He paused, eyes flickering towards you. “I love you. I’ve always loved you. I just—I just was too afraid to admit it. And then—” He chuckles a little and then reaches over to grab your hand. “And then you got jealous of Chrissy, today, and I knew you needed to know.”

Oh. Oh, shit. “You—What?” 

He let out a breathless chuckle and started to wipe his thumb against your hip bone. He let the silence sit as you took in each of his words. He was trying to be nice, but his mind was starting to become way too loud.

And then you smiled. You smiled so wide, and it was beautiful.

“I love you too, Eddie. I love you so much. I have for so long.” He kisses you gently, smiling widely because he just can’t help it. 

“Let's finish that movie, yeah?”

~~

“So…” 

You looked up at Chrissy with furrowed eyebrows, sipping your milkshake. “So, what?”

She rolled her eyes slightly at you, “Tell me all the details about Eddie!” You choked on the cold liquid hitting your throat. 

“W-What? How—”

She gave you a look, and then a sparkling glint in her eyes had almost shined. “Why do you think I told Eddie to hang out with you that day? And why do you think I coincidentally wanted drugs from him at the same time?” She paused, dipping a french fry into ketchup. 

“You two were so miserable without each other, and it was driving me crazy, especially you, you know.” She reached over and grabbed your wrist, giving it a squeeze. “I knew about your feelings for Eddie before you could even figure it out yourself.” 

Holy fucking shit. She knew. Who was this, and what have they done with Chrissy?

Your jaw hung open and then closed; you were astonished and astounded. “I don’t know whether to say thank you and hug you or punch your devious arm right now.”

She giggled, twirling her strawberry blonde hair between her fingers. “I’ll take the first option, thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah, come here, you little schemer.”

[jayybear]

I absolutely loved this!!

[soniaxdixon]

New Series, pt. 1 - Until Now

A NEW SERIES Y’ALL. Okay, I’m so excited for this one. It’s a friends to lovers <3 I need help thinking of a title so let me know!!

Warnings: Swearing

y/n and Daryl grew up together before y/n left for college, not long after, the world ended and Daryl had already left their town. y/n finds Daryl at the bottom of the ravine on his search for Sophia. After bringing him back to his people, they welcome y/n with open arms allowing the romance between y/n and Daryl to flourish.

Word Count: 2120

 You paced the woods trying to pick up on the trail of the deer you had been tracking, suddenly drawn from your thoughts by the sound of a horse and someone in pain. Without thinking, you ran towards the sound, stopping quickly as your body was almost thrown over the edge of a ravine.

“Shit” You mumbled as you tried to focus on the body that laid still down the bottom. You could see blood spilling around him and knew you had to be fast if you were going to help. You found your way down without too many injuries, a few cuts and bruises and a sprained ankle but nothing compared to this guy.

You walked closer, cautious as to if he was still alive or about to turn. Finally you were able to focus on his face. You threw yourself to the floor next to him.

“Holy shit, no fucking way. Daryl?” He didn’t respond as his body laid still. Your head flew to his chest to listen for a heart beat. You could hear one as well as feel the rise and fall of his chest. “Daryl wake up. It’s me. I need you to wake up. It’s y/n” You placed your head on his chest as he began to stir beneath you. Your head shot up as you looked down at his slowly opening eyes, they were as blue as you remembered.

“God first I’m seein’ Merle and now it’s you. How hard did I hit my damn head. Fuck.” He rubbed the back of his head and you chuckled, throwing your arms around him. His entire body went rigid at the contact. You were real.

————

Daryl lifted the last of your stuff into the back of your car. “Ya promise to call me every damn day that ya gone.”

“Yes sir. I promise. I’ll miss you D but I’ll be back by Christmas.”

“Yeah I know.”

You stood up on your toes and placed a small kiss on his cheek, turning on your heels quickly so Daryl couldn’t see the shade of red your cheeks now were but the colour of his cheeks matched yours.

“Back by Christmas.” You muttered, loud enough so he could hear.

“Ya better be.”

You and Daryl had grown up together. You did everything together, knew everything about each other, well almost everything. You never told him that you loved him. He never admitted his love for you. The fear of ruining the friendship the two of you had overpowered any ideas of a confession of love. The day you left for college was one of the hardest days of Daryl’s life, watching you drive away and towards a future quite possibly without him in it broke him that day.

You hadn’t even made it home before the world went to shit, you never got to reunite with Daryl.

Until now.

Here you were, crouched down at the bottom of a ravine, the reunion you hadn’t exactly dreamt of but wanted for so long. Daryl’s body was bruised and broken with a bolt through his left side. “Daryl, come on. I need you to sit up so we can figure out whatever is happening here.”

Daryl forced himself to sit up, his breathing was ragged as he clenched his teeth. His hands held where the bolt had pierced his side. You gently placed your hands over his to move them, he flinched at the contact and then hissed in pain at his sudden movement.

“I need you to let me see, we need to pull it out so we can bind it properly.”

Daryl moved his hands away carefully as his eyes focused on you. You were certainly a welcomed distraction. How did you even find him? You were even more beautiful than he remembered, the way the light reflected off the water and bounced off your eyes, giving off a certain light themselves, the ones that could ignite the fire in his chest so instantly. He wondered if-

His thoughts were interrupted by you ripping the bolt through his side and proceeding to shove a piece of ripped cloth over the wound to limit the amount of blood loss.

“MOTHER FUCKING SHIT BASTARD!” He yelled before his brain could even process what was happening.

“There, that was easy right? Please tell me you have a camp around here, I hope you do because you need stitches and fast.” You slipped your belt off and wrapped it around his waist securing the cloth and again, limiting the blood flow even more.

“Yeah, I’m stayin on a farm.”

You and Daryl managed to make it up the sides of the ravine and made your way towards the farm. Daryl Was stumbling along, barely able to walk but pushing himself nonetheless. You stumbled as quickly as you could with your ankle now swelling to twice its usual size.  The farm was now in sight as you walked slowly behind Daryl, hobbling along at your own pace. Four men ran towards you and Daryl as you froze. Daryl was still slightly ahead of you when a man pointed a gun at his head.

“Third time ya pointed that thing at me. Ya gonna pull the trigger?” Daryl yelled.

At the sudden realisation that Daryl was not a walker, the attention was on you, the gun now aimed at your head.

“She’s with me.”

BANG

You closed your eyes, did they just shoot you? No, there was no pain. Your eyes opened to see Daryl now on the floor. The man who held the gun began yelling “NO!”

shit, shit, shit. You dove on the floor, checking where he was shot, the bullet grazed his head. Two of the men lifted Daryl up and began hurriedly walking towards the farm. Adrenaline pumped through you as your focus was now on a woman who ran towards the six of you.

“Oh my God, is he dead?” She asked.

“You the one that shot him?” Your focus quickly on her.

“I thought he was a walker.”

You walked up to the girl, your hand balled in a fist as your swung hard into her left cheek, sending her to the floor. “Fucking dumbass.” You limped away, towards the farmhouse as she remained on the floor, clutching her face.

An old man ran out of the house.  “Take him up to the spare room, I’ll get my kit.”

Daryl’s surgery was quick, a few stitches and some pain killers. Then the attention was on you again as you sat on the bed next to Daryl. Close but not close enough to be touching.

“Thank you for saving him, my name is Rick Grimes.” Rick extended his hand to shake yours.

“Y/n y/l/n and it’s no problem. When I saw it was Daryl, there was no way I was leaving him there.”

“You know Daryl?”

“We grew up together” Daryl interrupted.

You smiled at him. “I left for college just before everything went to shit, by the time I made it home, Daryl was gone.”

Daryl looked solely at you know. “If I knew ya’d be comin’ back to town, I would have waited for ya.”

“Daryl, I saw the state of our town, you were right to leave as soon as you could.” Your hand brushed his slightly before he pulled his hand away and up to his mouth, succumbing to his habit of chewing on the skin around his thumb.

Rick stood up from his chair, “I’m gonna go and get you guys some food, I’ll send Hershel back to look at your ankle, y/n”

“Thanks, Rick.”

Rick left the room leaving you and Daryl in there alone. You looked at the archer who was already looking up at you sending shivers down your spine. You reached gently towards his head, pushing his hair away from his bandage that wrapped around where the girl had shot him.

“Heard ya hit Andrea pretty hard.” Daryl chuckled.

“Yeah, I don’t know what came over me, I just, seeing you hurt and knowing she was the one that did it…”

“I know what ya mean, It’s like, remember when Johnny broke up with ya, back in high school?”

“Oh my God, yes, I was heart broken.”

“Ya remember how he came to school a couple of days later, with a broken nose and he said it was a-”

“A snowboarding accident. Yeah I remember.”

“Well it wasn’t, I went to his house that night, hit him square in the face, broke his nose and busted his lip in one hit.”

“Oh my God, Daryl.” You both laughed “He was such an asshole to me, I don’t know why I liked him so much.”

“Me neither, ya deserved so much better.” Your eyes locked with his as your hand moved from his hair down to his cheek. The tips of his ears burned red as you leaned down ever so slightly. His eyes flicked between your eyes and your lips.

Rick walked in with two plates of food, startling both you and Daryl, sending you off the bed and onto your bad ankle. You yelped in pain before sitting back down on the bed, both yours and Daryl’s cheeks flushing red.

“I uh, what was happening?” A slight smirk on Rick’s face

“Nothing!” You and Daryl responded in unison.

“Uhh, alright then, here’s your food, Hershel will be here in a sec to check your ankle.” Rick looked between the two of you, the smirk on his face grew.

You and Daryl ate your dinner in silence, pausing half way through your meal when Hershel, the old man, walked in. He examined your ankle and you winced.

“It’s not broken, just sprained, should heal itself soon but you should keep it elevated for the next couple of days. Unfortunately this is our only spare bed as Carl is in our other one.”

Daryl looked between you and Hershel “S’ okay, I’ll head back to my tent tonight.”

“Daryl, no. I can sleep on the chair, I’ll use the bed as a foot rest. It’ll be the best sleep I’ve had in a while, trust me.”

“I’ll let the two of you figure it out. Just keep it elevated.” Hershel left the room, leaving you and Daryl alone again.

“Take the bed, I’ll take the chair.” Daryl said as he tried to push himself out of the bed but struggled.

“You can hardly move, you take the bed, I’ll take the chair.”

“Nah, not happenin”

“I mean, we could both take the bed. If you’re okay with that.”

Daryl froze at your words. “It’s either that or I take the chair, Daryl.”

“Nah, I’ll move over, hold up.” Daryl shifted his body as close to the edge of the bed as he could. You moved yourself from your sitting position to under the covers, lying next to Daryl, far enough apart that you weren’t touching. Daryl reached over and flicked the lamp off as you got comfortable and closed your eyes. Your attempt to stifle a yawn didn’t work as you let the comfort of the bed surround you.

“Thanks for saving me.” Daryl mumbled.

“You would have done the same for me.”

It was true, he would go to the ends of the earth for you, do anything you asked him to. After all this time, his feelings for you never changed. Neither yours for him. You both fell asleep with ease, by the middle of the night you were tangled in each others arms.

You woke up as the first light settled in the room, you were definitely not in the position you had fallen asleep in, no, now your body was pressed up against his body, his arm was draped around you. Your stomach flipped with emotions. If it were up to you, you would stay in this position for eternity but what if he didn’t feel the same way. Surely he didn’t, the way he flinched every time you touched. But what about the moment the two of you shared last night. You were pulled from your thoughts as you felt him stir behind you slightly. You carefully removed his arm and pushed yourself back to the edge of the bed before he woke up.

He was already awake. He woke before you but remained still with his arm wrapped around you like he had always dreamt of. But when he felt you push away from him, he closed his eyes quickly and pretended to be asleep. You obviously didn’t want him touching you. Maybe you didn’t feel the same way about him. But what about the moment you shared last night?

[skrsgrd-deactivated20221227]

Ohhh, can you do a little prompt where axel and Rosie stay at her parents house for a bit. Maybe they finally decided to give axel and chance but…he can’t sleep in the same room as her. So one night he sneaks in her room and gets a little excited over the thought of fucking rosie in her childhood bed. But her parents are still in the next room over sleeping so they have to be quiet.

that's the thing about axel cluney. he doesn't like to follow the rules. and when rosie's parents insisted they sleep in separate rooms, he'd had to hide his smirk, because he knew that wasn't happening. he made it look like he was going to bed in the guest room, but in the middle of the night, he sneaked out of the room and into rosie's. it had started out innocent enough. rosie was only planning to snuggle up against him while they watched a movie. but of course, axel's hands started to wander. she was irresistible, he just couldn't help himself.

"axe, we can't," she whispered as he began to kiss along the side of her neck. but she was already beginning to lose her resolve, because of his lips on her skin and his hands wandering to places they shouldn't. "who says we can't?" he replied, nipping gently at her earlobe as he replied. she shivered, already feeling warmth spreading through her. "but my parents, they're-" suddenly, he'd turned her onto her back, gazing down at her. "can you be a good girl and stay quiet for me?" he asked, genuinely wanting to know. the way he was looking at her, intensity in his eyes, had her clenching her thighs together as arousal began to buzz within her.

"i think so," she peeped. "okay. and more importantly, do you want to do this? because if you'd rather not, if you feel too weird about it, we don't have to do anything," he sincerely spoke. she reached up, cupping his cheeks in her hands. "i do want this. i just don't know how quiet i can be. when...when you get me feeling really good, i get kind of noisy." at that, axel smirked. "you do. and i love that about you. but i'll help you stay quiet. i have a couple ideas that might help." "oh?" she inquired. he smirked, devilishly so, and reached down, slowly tugging her underwear down her legs, out from under her nightgown. he held the panties up so she could see them. "i'll just shove these in your mouth. it should do the trick."

rosie blushed, but didn't have time to dwell on it before axel was kissing her again, open mouthed and deep. he reached down, pushing the hem of her nightie up and bringing his hand between her thighs to brush over her center. he was delighted to find that she was already slick. "this gets you wet, doesn't it?" came his hushed teasing. "knowing we could get caught at any moment. i wonder what they would say tomorrow morning if they found out their precious little girl had her nasty fuck of a boyfriend balls deep inside her all night long?" that had her whining oh so softly, shivering at the filth coming from his mouth.

he knew that she would be particularly needy in this instance. being in her old bedroom, with her parents just down the hall that could potentially find out what they were doing, had her getting small on him. but axel handled it well, making sure she felt safe and comfortable. he spent some extra time getting her worked up for him, making sure she wasn't tense. and when he finally slipped inside her, he swallowed her moan with a kiss. "that's it, bunny," he soothed. "you take me so well."

she felt so safe and protected beneath him, surrounded by his warmth and the soft bedcovers. she relished in his whispered praise, her body responding to him of its own volition. she remained as quiet as she could, and when she got a little too loud, axel slid his thumb into her mouth to suck on, and it worked wonders. "such a good girl. you're doing such a good job," he encouraged. her eyes glimmered with tears of pleasure, and he remained gentle and unhurried in his movements, because he knew she couldn't take anything rough in this headspace.

it went on this way for quite a while, until finally, rosie was grabbing at him, eyes wide as she realized she was going to tip over the edge. "go ahead, come for me, rosie girl," he told her. she fell apart in his arms, with his hand over her mouth so her cry of pleasure was muffled. as she finally began to come down, axel met his own end, filling her with the essence of his release. he lifted his head so he could gaze down upon her, and she gave him a sleepy smile. "thank you daddy," she whispered, and he hummed lowly, nuzzling her neck. "you're welcome baby. gimme a minute and i'll get you all cleaned up, yeah? and then we can get some rest." she nodded, snuggling close to his chest. "okay." but she had already begun to drift off to sleep, safe in axel's arms.

[jayybear]

oh. oh wow,,,ok then 😳👀

this was so good holy shit

[boldlyvoid]

Million Dollar Man

18+

summary: Spencer's therapist recommended he branch out and meet new people who don't want to talk about his work... she didn't expect him to sign up for a Sugar Daddy website.

warnings: sugar daddy!spencer, age gaps (14 years), daddy kink, blow jobs, kissing, drinking mention, lowkey perv!spencer, (more to add)

word count: 5.2k

a/n: updates on Wednesdays at 2 pm est

Chapter One | Masterlist

10 months ago

Penelope isn't a judgy person, Spencer knows this and yet he has passed her office door 3 times today with the hopes of asking for her help and he just can’t do it. No matter how much he reminds himself that she’d be cool with whatever he has to say, he struggles to knock just as she opens the door.

“Spencer?” She’s a little startled, “what’s wrong, bubs?”

“I have a question about online stuff?” He shuts his eyes and scrunches his face, embarrassed doesn’t even begin to cover it.

“Come in,” she doesn’t give him the choice to leave as she pulls him in and shuts the door. “What kind of online stuff?”

“A website… I don’t want to use my work email, obviously, and I know my internet usage can be looked at for security protocols here… and it’s not a site I really want to be known by anyone else in the building. I mean, many of them probably are on worse sites than this; so it’s not that weird but I’m still worried that I’m going to get in a lot of trouble for wanting to use some of my money to help nice women get through school or hard times—

He stops when he realizes he gave it away.

“You want to be a sugar daddy?” She whispers with a smirk. “Really? For like sex stuff or just companionship?”

“Companionship first and foremost. My therapist wants me to meet more people that I don’t work with and I think this is beneficial on their end while I’m in therapy,” He's completely honest because that means she won’t pry, if he gives her what she wants then she can’t tease him.

“I’ll set you up with a new email, a VPN and help you make an account that keeps your identity secret while still seemingly approachable. You’re a bit younger than most men online, they might expect payment or gifts upfront to know you’re real,” she explains like she knows from experience. “I know I don’t have to remind you but, be safe? No risky pictures and wrap it, please? The last thing you need on top of everything else is herpes.”

It makes him laugh, “believe me I’m not really in it for the sex, I’m taking my therapist's advice and I’m looking for people I can talk to about things that don't go on here. I need people who know nothing about serial killers.”

“You’ve never really branched out, and I don’t blame you after everything you’ve been through, but I know you’re an amazing man and you’re kind and funny. I mean that you have always made me smile, Spencer Reid,” Penelope pats his shoulder lightly. “This’ll be good for you.”

“Thank you,” he smiles, “I think so too.”

—

After he makes the account he leaves it alone for 24 hours. He lets himself sit in the algorithm and he waits for the women and men to be interested in him; he’s not about to chase down someone who doesn’t want him. That’s not what he’s here for.

It’s nice to feel wanted. He enjoys being hit on and complimented. It’s the reason why he puts so much effort into how he looks; he wants people to find him attractive. He wants attention for something other than the fact his brain works like a computer and his anxiety makes it do stupid things.

He has 13 messages when he finally looks.

His profile was nothing special, just his age, how much he makes and a photo of himself from the neck down, in one of his favourite outfits.

He states he’s looking for companionship, nights out, occasional dates as well as online communication. He’s just interested in getting to know people, and some people more than others.

Y/N - 23, sugar baby/escort, Wishlist

If I message you then I’m serious, if not; stop trying.

Her bio makes him laugh but it’s exactly what he was looking for; someone to spot him and want him.

Yesterday

11:08 pm

Y/N: Hii, you are probably the only person who looks good in a sweater vest… you’re a little younger than the normal crowd I go for, but I’d love to get drinks sometime and see if anything sticks?

He remembers what Penelope said, how they sometimes like for you to prove you’re serious with a gift or payment upfront.

He opens her Wishlist, it’s an amazon cart of household essentials, school supplies lingerie and adult toys… he buys the whole Wishlist for her, writing in the shipping note that it was from him.

Now

Y/N: there is no way you just did that?

Spenceified: I did, and I would love you to get drinks, pick a time and a place and I will be there ♥︎

—

She picks a small jar bar in DC and books a table in the back for the two of them. He’s already there when she arrives, in a beautiful dress and her hair all done. She looks good enough to give the colour red the blues, she’s the most beautiful person in the room and she was coming to sit beside Spencer.

“Doctor Reid?” She uses his formal name, he stands and extends a hand to her, “pleasure to meet you.”

“Pleasure is all mine,” he kisses the top of her hand and helps her into the booth.

“Thank you,” she smiles. “I’m Y/N, as you know, you look really nice tonight.”

“Thank you, Y/N,” he blushes slightly, “you look stunning tonight.”

They both order wine as soon as the waiter comes to greet them, leaving them alone together again, Spencer immediately asks her if she’s been doing this for a long time, not knowing what else to say.

“I started on onlyfans, it was nice for a while but at a certain point it’s hard to get up every day and look at yourself as anything other than an object?” She looks like she hates her word choice. “I would look at myself in the mirror and be like ‘ugh I have to take photos today looking like this?’ And I hated it. I stopped enjoying sex, masturbating was like a chore and I lost all the passion for what was originally a fun way to make money.”

“Believe me, I understand how work can destroy your love for something,” Spencer agrees, “that’s why I signed up actually, my therapist wants me to talk to someone who doesn’t want to hear about my job.”

“That’s a first,” Y/N smiles, “normally all I hear about is trades and stocks and who’s doing better than who… sometimes I think businessmen are worse than their wives when it comes to gossiping.”

“Have you seen many married men?”

“Not many, is this your way of breaking the news you’re married too?”

He shakes his head lightly, taking a sip of wine to clear his throat, “no, my dating life has been very dry.”

“Are you?” Her voice is a whisper, “celibate or a virgin?”

“The first, not by choice,” he presses his lips together awkwardly. “I’m normally very busy, the type of work I do isn’t really a place to take anyone home from, and I just don’t think I have it in me to do it without meaning?”

“That's nice though,” she agrees, “it’s why I switched, I have only slept with 2 customers, I don’t sleep with the married ones and I have to have at least 3 dates before I even think about sleeping with most of the men I see.”

“How many regulars do you have?”

“Three,” her smile is soft and he can tell she cares for them. “Andy is 54 and he is a lawyer with a few kids who don’t talk to him but he’s a sweetheart. Craig is 81 and I see him at his nursing home and we watch movies and make a lot of puzzles. Then there is Joseph, he’s 44 and I’m trying to find a way to stop seeing him.”

“Oh?” He feels a little worried with the way her tone changes, and then she sighs.

“He’s too rough? Not sexually— I haven’t slept with him and I don’t want to,” she rushes the words out, “more in the sense he orders me around? Almost like he thinks that he owns me for my time?”

“I’m really sorry, is there anything I can do to help?”

“It’s okay, but if he gets worse I have your number,” her smile is genuine and he knows she means that, she trusts him and he’s glad.

“Would you be interested in meeting once a week for different social outings with me? Like for coffee and museum tours? I’d like to explore the city with a friend,” he explains her half of the deal. “I would pay you whatever you ask, anything you want while we’re out and gas money if you rather me not pick you up.”

“That sounds really wonderful, actually, not many of my clients want to meet during the daytime,” she agrees. “If it’s weekly, you can pick me up and if you’re paying for everything we do, I think $500 a week is reasonable?”

“I could do $800 a week?” He goes up, knowing she was being generous.

“You have $800 just sitting around every week?” She laughs like it’s an absurd amount.

He nods, “I get paid well, and I’m really good at poker.”

“We’ll have to have a casino date sometime, I’d love an excuse to get all fancy,” she smirks, “oh also, I can wear whatever you like if you have a specific type?”

He presses his lips together and shakes his head, “whatever you’re comfortable in, it’s really more about companionship for me currently.”

She hums, reaching for her wine to finally take a drink, comfortable enough to let her guard down. She was smart, he’s proud of her.

“Is it a therapy thing, or are you in another form of recovery?” She asks carefully.

“You can tell?”

She nods, “you looked me up and down, licked your lips and adjusted yourself before you sat. I’m not cocky, but I know when a man is interested in me and I know when someone is holding back.”

“I profile people for a living,” he smirks.

“Ah,” she bites her lip quickly. “You’re in the FBI?”

Another nod, “for now.”

“You really don’t like it?”

“It stopped feeling worth it a long time ago, which is why my therapist wants me to make meaningful relationships that don’t involve talking about murder…”

“Makes sense,” she laughs awkwardly. “is she a good therapist?”

“I really like her, she keeps me on track and tells me upfront when I’m not doing okay. Sometimes I bury things I don’t need to,” he’s honest, and it feels easy.

“Do you want to ask me anything? Move the conversation somewhere where you can learn something?” She smiles, picking up on his quirks already.

“What are you studying currently?”

“I’m not,” she looks ashamed, “I’m a writer, I’ve been ghostwriting for some YA writers, but it doesn’t pay very well to pretend to be someone else.”

“That’s why you can read people so well, you have lived a million lives in those stories,” he knows what that's like. He used to profile book characters to practice for the academy.

She looks down at the table, tucking her hair behind her ear, genuinely accepting the compliment, “I really love writing.”

“Would I know any of your works?”

She laughs, raising her brow, “no, unless you’re secretly into money-hungry youtubers?”

“What’s a youtuber?”

She laughs again but she looks at him like she knew he was going to say that, “they make videos on YouTube about their lives, I write for some who don’t actually care about the stories they’re making they just want the money from their audience.”

“Do you have any novels you are working on publishing?” Asking another question like she wanted.

She nods with a small smile, “I have this plot about a woman who falls in love with her co-worker, they’re both engineers and he gets cancer so she finds a way to put his personality into an AI before he dies and she gets to keep him around until she dies one day.”

“I would love to read that,” he lights right up, “I have a Ph.D. in engineering.”

“So you’d be able to help me with some of the background facts and make sure it’s factual?”

“I would love to,” he feels a familiar kind of affection in his chest, he just made a new friend for life. “And my co-worker has published a few books, he has an in with a publishing company. If you’d like to pitch something, I will gladly pull a few strings for you.”

She’s stunned, trying to find words but she can't. “Really?”

“Of course?” His head tilts as he observes her, she’s not used to people doing things for her for no reason. They always want something.

“You’re lucky you told me this is a companionship thing because I would have just jumped your bones as a thank you,” she tries to laugh it off.

“It’s what friends do,” he places his hand on the table and she holds it back with a smile. “I wanted to get into this because I have resources and a minimal support system. I think you’re nice and if you ever need anything, I would love to help out.”

Her breathing picks up slightly as she grips his hand tighter, “can I tell you a secret?”

“Of course?”

“I haven’t had sex with a man because I want to in years,” she whispers, “I haven’t enjoyed sex in a long time.”

“I’m not ready yet,” he’s just as honest. “But I’ll tell you when I am?”

She smiles, it’s sweet and soft, “take your time, I know it’ll be worth the wait.”

Now

Within the last 9 months, Y/N has gone from being a stranger to being his best friend in the whole world. Their dates were very commercial at first, museums and galleries, fancy dinners and cocktail dresses. He even brought her out on the only vacation he’s ever taken in his whole life.

Her book was amazing, she loved running new ideas past him and he loved editing her work. It was a nice system they had going; they met weekly for whatever they wanted to do together, she walked away with $800 and he left without feeling like a burden. She was good for him.

And he was incredibly good to her.

She was now making enough to move apartments and live alone, he helped her with 6 months of the lease upfront and had new furniture delivered. She was in the editing stages of getting her book published, and she had dropped all her other sugar daddies for him within 5 months of working together.

Her birthday was coming up, he felt like he was ready to take the next step in their relationship even though she has been teasing and trying to get him into bed for the last year. She knows his kinks, his quirks, his trauma and his soft spots and she likes him for who he is, not just because he pays her to.

He’s sitting on her couch, reading the latest book she’s ghostwriting when he asks. “For your birthday, what would you like to do? Nothing is too fancy.”

She gets up from her spot, moving her laptop to the coffee table and making her way to sit in his lap and hold his face in her hands, “what did you do when you turned 24, daddy?”

“My friends at work got me a cake,” he brushes his nose against hers as he speaks, wishing he could kiss her again.

That’s another thing she doesn’t do. She doesn’t kiss him on the lips, it’s a rule she learned from her favourite movie, she’s even made him watch it to understand… but they never finished the movie because they were too busy making out on her new couch... and then in her room.

She smiled as he walked into the room, sitting down softly beside her and smiling back, “what?”

“I’m just glad I’m here, it’s been a long week."

"What did you want to watch tonight?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he groaned as he sat down on her couch after a long case. “Would you want to cuddle?”

“Always.”

She laid back against the couch then, letting him find a comfortable spot in the crease of the couch as he laid against her. His head on her shoulder, arm around her waist, legs tangled together.

“Have you ever seen Pretty Women?” She asked softly as she flicked through the titles on the screen.

“Nope,” he said softly. She could feel his breath on her skin, she loved when he was like this.

She clicked on it, seeing she was already 15 minutes into the film, right after Mr. Lewis picks Vivian up on the street, Spencer wasn’t missing much if they picked up there.

‘Did you know your foot is as long as your elbow to your wrist?’ Vivian spoke the second it loaded. She was driving down Hollywood boulevard, showing Mr. Lewis how to get to his hotel. Trying her best to get him to flirt back with her.

“What’s this about?” Spencer asked softly.

“Vivian is a prostitute, she’s very smart and charismatic. She helps Edward to his hotel where he pays her to stay the night, then the week. Getting her to accompany him to events for his work and eventually he falls in love with her,” she explained it quickly. “It’s my favourite movie on earth.”

“Why?”

She pressed her cheek to his forehead as she watched the movie for a moment, thinking about why exactly she loved it. “She’s there for work, and her work just so happens to include sex. But by just talking, just getting to know each other on an emotional level, they fall in love.”

“You’re a romantic?” He was full of questions.

“Kinda,” she replied softly, running her fingers through his hair softly. “Now shut up and pay attention.”

For a movie about a prostitute, it wasn’t about sex. Vivian was unique, her sense of humour was so captivating that it made even Spencer want to fall in love with her; She was easy to talk to, she was kind, she cared about everyone that she met. When she was being herself, she was beautiful beyond belief. Edward found solace in her, seeing a happiness and wonder in her that made him feel safe. She made him feel like he was finally home.

They watched in silence as Edward convinced Vivian to try a strawberry with champagne. Y/N laughed slightly as Edward accused Vivian of doing drugs, only wanting to floss the strawberry seeds out of her teeth.

Y/N knew this movie like the back of her hand, whispering to him that she had it on VHS as a teenager. It was the reason she was so romantic, it was what drew her to open honesty and true communication, something that partners in the past didn’t value as much.

It shaped her into the pretty woman he was falling in love with.

Then, Edward was on the phone doing his work while Vivian had snacks on the carpet. It looked like a typical Wednesday night in their bedroom during a local case. Spencer did all the work while she ate snacks and helped when she could.

But then Vivian and Edward made eye contact, the mood shifted as she crawled across the floor towards Edward. Teasing his leg softly, stripping out of her dress before spreading his legs.

She forgot just how seductive this movie could be, ‘I don’t kiss on the mouth,’ Vivian teased Edward. ‘Neither do I.’ He replied before Vivian began to go down on him.

“Kissing spreads fewer germs than a blow job, even fewer germs than a handshake,” Spencer laughed softly, shifting his leg slightly against her.

“Really?” She asked, watching as he shifted all his weight to one arm, looking down at her now.

He can’t stop looking at her lips, “I know you don’t want to kiss because of the emotional aspect, but…”

“Fuck it.”

He leaned in softly and pressed his lips softly against hers. She laid a hand on his cheek as they both pressed into the kiss. Breathing in deeply through their noses as she stayed there, kissing him. He pulled off just to kiss her quickly 4 more times.

She smiled into the last kiss— her teeth hit his lips slightly, making him smile too. He settled back onto her chest, snuggling back into her neck, rubbing his nose against her skin softly.

Her hand found its way back into his hair. He was barely paying attention to the movie, captivated by her heartbeat and the memory of her lips. He understands now why Vivian doesn’t kiss, because now that he’s had a taste; he never wants anything else.

‘Baby, I'm gonna treat you so nice, you’re never gonna want to let me go.’ Vivian purred as Edward got ready to leave for the day. Agreeing on her rate for the week, $3000 and spending cash, all just so Edward could fall in love with her.

Spencer held her a little tighter, she kissed the top of his head. He lost track of time in her embrace, resting her cheek against Spencer's hair, occasionally rubbing against him like a cat would. Marking him as her lips brushed the soft hair.

Vivian was wondering the hotel looking for Edward when Spencer finally shifted his focus back to the movie. Finding him in the piano room. Playing out his emotions, a healthy way of coping, one Spencer also had.

The mood changed very quickly upon seeing the way Edward looked at Vivian. He pressed his head softly against Vivian's chest, de-robing her slowly, before placing her on the piano.

It was slow, he wanted to kiss her but she wouldn’t let him. Letting him kiss her neck instead, giving Spencer an idea. She felt the soft trace of his bottom lip on her skin as he pressed his face into her neck more. Kissing the skin softly.

Her eyes on the tv, seeing Edward bending Vivian back, arching her back as he ate her out on the piano. Making a comment about people listening to whatever he asked them to do.

The visual mixed with the feeling of Spencer's lips on her neck made her moan slightly. Spencer smiled as he felt the vibration in her throat, “are you a Vivian or an Edward?” He asked her.

“Edward mostly,” she gasped. “Control freak, you know?”

“Vivian just wants to be loved, I get that,” he kissed her more, up her neck towards her jaw, under her ear and on her temple before he propped himself back up on one arm.

Looking down at her, his hair falling in front of his eyes, she brushed his hair back. He knew what she wanted by the way she looked at him, “are you ready yet?”

“No,” he kissed her then, pressing his lips against hers softly as she held his hair back with her hands. Hearing the familiar tune of Pretty Women as she licked his bottom lip.

Her tongue was warm and soft, she tasted like the toothpaste from her bathroom. He was so soft with her, exploring her mouth delicately as she did the same with him.

Taking their time to just touch each other with their lips, pressing open-mouthed kisses against each other, brushing bottom lips, licking each other's tongues. It was slow and intimate, they were appreciating the time they had together.

Everything felt very loud then, it was his only sense that wasn’t on fire for a while. As Spencer's hands started to explore her, as she anticipated his next move, the sound of the voices on the tv started to stress him out.

He couldn’t focus on the moment, and he really wanted to be here. Almost like she could read his mind, she reached for the remote, turning off the tv, making the room go pitch black.

“Can we do this in my room?” She asked softly, “your arm is going to go numb.”

“Yeah, come on,” he awkwardly crawled off her, standing up and offering a hand to her. Helping her to her feet, he kept holding her hand as they walked into her room.

She got in first, waiting for him to lay down beside her. Flipping the sheets over him as he rolled to face her. She rubbed her nose against his, placing her hand on his side as she pressed in closer to him. It was dark in her room, the light from the moon behind the blinds being the only reason she could still see his beautiful face.

“Can you turn on the lamp?” She asked softly.

He rolled to the other side, leaning as he pulled on the chain. The room filled with golden light, casting over the whole room.

He rolled onto his back then, staring up at the ceiling as she cuddled into his neck this time. Hitching her leg over him as she reached her free hand to cup his jaw.

She kissed his chin softly, dragging her bottom lip on the stubble. She explored him with her mouth softly, ghosting their lips against each other as they felt each other up once more.

They watched each other the whole time. Brushing their lips together slightly as they enjoyed each other's company in a different way for once.

Intimately, innocently, intently.

“If I forget to tell you later, I had a really good time tonight,” she quoted the movie. Knowing he hadn’t seen that part yet, not caring if he didn’t get it. “I always do, Spence."

That was the first and only night he stayed over at her place. It’s been 2 months since then and all he can think about is kissing her, holding her… making her cum over and over again as he fills her with his load and marks her as his own. The thoughts always show up and he can’t fight them away sometimes, he looks past her as she sits in his lap and tries his best to clear his mind.

“I’m ready, if you’d like to plan something involving sex?” His voice is low as he continues to stare past her, she places her hand on his cheek and brings his attention back to her.

“Look at me when you say it,” it comes out as more of an order. “I want to know you’re serious. If you can’t handle it and it ruins our agreement I’m going to be very sad.”

“I never want to make you sad, baby, just the opposite actually,” he brushes his nose against hers again, something that's become so personal to them he will never be able to do it with another person.

“Well then,” she smirks, “what would you like to do to me to celebrate 24 years of my life?”

“24 gifts,” he whispers, “starting with this?”

He reaches toward the side table, opening a small drawer and pulling out a jewelry box, “it’s 24 karat gold, those are ethical diamonds, and on the back, there is a special message just for you.”

She opens the box and looks up at him with confused eyes, “are you sure this isn’t too much, daddy?”

“No, it’s not,” he assures her, “look.”

He takes the necklace from the box and turns it over, the words ‘daddy’s girl’ engraved on the back. “So that you can wear it out but no one will know but us.”

“You want to mark me so bad don’t you? Maybe that’ll be one of my birthday presents?” She teases him as he reaches behind her neck to clasp the necklace on her.

“You’d let me?”

She kisses the side of his mouth, almost breaking their rule but not quite, “this is an exchanging of gifts, I want to give you what you want as well… ever since you told me what you’re into, I’ve been dreaming about the feeling of your cum dripping down my legs.”

As soon as the necklace is on her, his hand grips her hair and she gasps, “do it, daddy, please? I want you to fill me.”

“It’s nice to see you want me,” he smirks, “but if that’s what you really want, I want to save the best present for last.”

“You suck,” she pouts as she leans in to press her chest against his. “I’ll let you kiss me again?” She tries to bargain and it just makes him laugh.

“I know something you can do that involves your mouth... if you’re really interested?” He teases as she slips off him and between his legs in front of the couch.

“Really?”

“Show me what you can do?” He asks while undoing his belt, she licks her lips as she watches.

Helping him pull his pants and boxers down, she looks at him like he’s a meal, “holy shit…”

She kissed along Spencer’s groin, avoiding his cock for the time being. Spencer's shifted under her, a hand gripped the couch while his other moved to run through Y/N’s hair. Finally, she licked a stripe up the vein of his dick, flicking at the head. Spencer's let out a soft moan, gripping her hair more.

Y/N took him in her mouth, wrapping her fist around the base where her mouth wouldn’t be able to reach. She dragged her tongue along the underside, back up to the tip where she sucked slightly before popping off. She dragged his lips down to the base, going back up with his tongue before taking him in his mouth again. She bobbed, listening to Spencer’s moans just made her go faster.

Without a gag reflex, she takes him as far as she can and he knows he won't last long. “I’m close,” he warns her.

She writes “ok” on his skin with her nails, letting him know that he can finish in her mouth. He’s so captivated by her, the feeling of her on his cock, the look in her eyes and the sounds filling the room, it’s all so much and then he’s shooting his load down her throat. But she doesn’t stop, she’s still sucking his cock, sending shockwaves of overstimulation through him

She pulls off him with a pop, a trail of spit connecting them before she wipes her mouth, “thank you, baby,” he manages to speak through his heavy breathing.

Her hands caress his legs, her nails scratching up and down his thighs as he relaxes again, “anything for you, daddy.”

“You know you don’t have to call me that all the time, right?”

She laughs, “you do know I like calling you daddy, right?”

“Really?”

She gets up and he slips his pants back up before she sits in his lap once more, “you’re the best daddy I’ve ever had, you’re nice and handsome and kind, you’re good to me and I really appreciate you, daddy.”

It makes all the hair on his body stand on end, she’s so intoxicating he doesn’t know how he’s lasted this long without falling into bed with her. The day he does he’s doomed; he’s never going to be able to lay with another person again after her.

Permanent taglist:

@g0lden-cth @doctorspenceryeet @samuel-de-champagne-problems @reiding-recs @shemarmooresfedora @reidsfish @manuosorioh @mochionly @jswessie187 @k-k0129 @blanchardsbk @idonotexiste @measure-in-pain @dreams-in-blxck @doc-padfoot @nomajdetective @xoxomgg @mggswhorificlover @dinonuggets1967 @meganskane @gubeskneescrew @kya-li @reidsbookclub @muffin-cup

MDM taglist:

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[jayybear]

this is SO INCREDIBLY GOOD!!! I love it so much. everything about this is exactly what I needed and I didn't even know it?? ahh 🖤

[fiftyshadesofspencerreid]

drowning in love

(PART 2 TO 'DO THE STARS GAZE BACK')

do the stars gaze back ?

overview: the reader is hopelessly, head over heels in love with Spencer but doesn't believe he feels the same way - they go on a 'not date' to the aquarium to look at the pretty jellyfish.

genre: ANGST (this is definitely angsty have fun), fluff-ish(?), pining, friends to lovers hehee - also did i mention angst ?

pairing: spencer reid x gn!reader

a/n: hi lovelies !! ahhh this is the second part to 'do the stars gaze back?' and I just wanna say thank you to everyone who has supported it and given it so much love. I've literally been on Tumblr for 2 weeks and it already has 700 notes which is MINDBLOWING for me. I love and appreciate each and everyone one of you <3. anyways in this part reader is still pining over Spencer but this time they're at an aquarium and it's so cute and there are sea creatures surrounding them and dkjhfsdkjhfsjkd it's so cute. i highkey wish this was me and my crush (but alas she does not like me - again pls come to me and cry about unrequited love if you have experience bc istg i'm gonna create a support group bc this shit is hard). anyways I hope you have fun reading - pls let me know what you think :)) <33

-

-

“(y/n), hi!”, you heard a familiar voice behind you.

you turned around and were instantly greeted enveloped in a hug from your favourite person ever. wait no scratch that – you were enveloped in a hug from a very dear friend of yours whom you had no romantic attachment to whatsoever (you’d read online that a positive mindset and repeated affirmations and manifestations stating that your crush was just a friend – was a key part in getting over someone).

“hey Spence. oof. someone’s feeling particularly clingy today.” you said smiling at him to let him know you were joking (well joking to an extent- your heart palpitations had started to begin again, and you really didn’t know if being this close to him was good for you).

“it feels like i haven’t seen you in ages. not since our movie night – and that was a while ago,” he murmured into your ear, still not letting go of you.

“need i remind you that we literally see each other every day? if anything, i’ve not not seen you in ages,” you replied, breaking away from his arms.

“i know that silly.” for a second his smile broke, and he looked almost lost. was he upset that you let go of him? no that couldn’t be it. “but it doesn’t feel the same, you know. something’s felt off for the last couple of weeks. i don’t know how to describe it”

oh. perhaps Spencer had noticed your distance– and apparently wanted to talk about it right now.

“wow - boy wonder is at a loss of words for once. c’mon let’s go inside,” you replied, trying to smile, (you know…deflecting as usual).

as you went up the stairs leading to the entrance, several steps ahead of him, you could’ve sworn your ears were playing tricks on you because heard spencer whisper:

“only around you.”

you both entered the aquarium and Spencer went to the front desk to show your tickets and to get a map – despite coming here a thousand times you’d both gotten lost every time you visited (which you had to admit was strange because in reality the aquarium wasn’t that big, and Spencer literally had an eidetic memory – but somehow things never did go to plan with the two of you). you gazed at him as he was talking animatedly to the elderly man at reception, beaming so widely.

his hair was growing long again, covering his eyes – and you had the sudden urge to walk up to him, cup his chip and brush his hair out of his face.

no. that is not a platonic thought! he is just a friend and that is it. that is all you will ever be and if you dare think anything like this again you won’t be allowed to eat pizza for a week - you told yourself.

it was going to be a long three hours at the aquarium.

***

well, you were wrong.

the first hour and a half flew by so quickly, you’d barely even registered that you were halfway through your outing. and honestly, you’d forgotten about the promise you made yourself and the awkwardness that you had created earlier. like sure, there were moments where you literally stopped breathing because holy shit Spencer looked really really pretty when he talked about the water vascular system of a starfish (which apparently was ‘a hydraulic system made up of a network of fluid-filled canals and is concerned with locomotion, adhesion, food manipulation and gas exchange inside a starfish’… or something like that). but mostly everything just felt so easy when you talked to him. you’d never felt this way with anyone else - not even with the rest of the team, and you loved them more than anything - hell you trusted them with your life.

and yet with Spencer, it was different.

the heaviness that was constantly weighing on your chest when you talked to other people, was gone. you walked and talked around the aquarium as you discussed…. well everything – to Garcia’s mystery man to the latest Dr. Who episode (which you usually watched together, but last week you were “ill” so you couldn’t make it to his house) and it truly felt like you hadn’t spoken in years.

and the time you spent together catching up, was perfect.

you both finally made it to the exhibition you’d been waiting for – the jellyfish section. Spencer’s favourite thing about the aquarium was the fact that they worked with a local charity to help conserve animals that were injured or abandoned. they organised incredible programs with new initiatives each year, created to save the sea life in the nearby coastal regions. it was a commendable charity: for its selflessness, hard work, and brilliance. changing the lives of so many animals each year. however, at that moment, the only reason you felt thankful for the charity was not because of the work that they did or the number of lives they saved but because of the smile the charity brought on Spencer’s face, you watched his eyes widen in astonishment as you walked through the see-through tunnels, surrounded by the colourful glow of jellyfish pulsating through their light kissed surroundings. gliding through the water effortlessly.

it was magical.

slowly and steadily, you both made your way closer to the creatures. almost in apprehension. as if you couldn’t truly believe what you were seeing. pressing your foreheads against the glass, you stood in awe watching the jellyfish play with each other. they seemed to be unaware of the people on the other side of the wall, living blissfully in their own little bubble.

“they’re beautiful,” he whispered next to you.

at the sound of Spencer’s voice, you instinctively shifted your head, taking in the view of your best friend, fixated on the jellyfish. you noticed how the water refracted a shade of blue light onto his face, turning him into an abstract piece of art. the light exemplified the golden flecks sprinkled around his brown irises. but brown was a word too dismal to describe his eyes.

his eyes were a thousand hues - ranging from the shade of autumnal leaves to a darkened honeycomb in the summer. to reduce his eyes to something as dull as brown was a disservice to the spellbinding colour that they were.

the light hadn’t turned him into a piece of art. he already was one.

“yeah, you are.”

he met your gaze, and you found yourself involuntarily staring deep into his eyes. your eyelashes fluttered, as your blinks became longer and longer and it felt as if the world was slowing down around you both.

you hadn’t realised how close you both were standing. your shoulders touching, whilst your hands shakily skimmed over each other; brushing briefly for a few seconds. an almost whisper of a touch.

Spencer cleared his throat and looked back at the jellyfish.

fuck.

but he didn’t make an attempt to move, so neither did you.

“you know it’s funny,” he started, the silence had become unbearably uncomfortable, “what Rossi said to me yesterday when i told him about our plans.”

“what did he say?” you almost whispered, looking back at the jellyfish.

“he asked if we were going on a date today.” he replied looking back at you, wide-eyed and blushing.

Spencer was never one to blush. his nervous tells ranged from biting his lips (and licking them ever so slightly) to fumbling with his fingers to word vomiting any random piece of knowledge tucked inside his beautiful brain. but blushing? you swore you could see a pink tinge beginning to form on his cheeks.

“oh wow. he said that-“

“ahahaha. yeah, he’s funny right?”

“yeah. totally. i mean you know Rossi. always the joker.” you replied light-heartedly, raising your eyebrows. you could feel the weight of your heart crushing into a million pieces.

and so, you both went back to staring at the aquarium showcase.

it had almost turned into a game - one of you would begin to say something but think otherwise and go back to staring at the jellyfish whilst the other would then turn to look at you whilst you were busy looking at the display.

the tension was ever-thickening.

but still, you both didn’t try to move away from one another. in fact, at this point your hands had stopped grazing against each other. you were confused at first when you didn’t feel his hand, an absence of warmth against your skin. but then he intertwined his pinkie with yours and goddamit you almost flinched.

you couldn’t take this anymore. it was building up inside your chest and you felt that if you couldn’t say it now then then you would literally die. i mean if he didn’t feel the same way back – that was fine. it would be fine. you would be fine. love was overrated. and anyways you weren’t sure if you were in love with him. carbon monoxide poisoning was still a viable reason as to why you felt the way you felt. it would be fine – you’d just tell him calmly and rationally and-

“(y/n), do you love me?”

huh? what the fuck did he just say?

you couldn’t breathe.

this was it. he was going to hate you. this was your best friend. your favourite person… well ever.

and you were about to lose him forever.

and for a moment, neither of you spoke, only looking in each other’s eyes. your body was telling you to run, but your feet remained planted to the ground.

“i-“

i love you.

“i need to go.”

taglist:

@percabethfangirl @hihelloscout@mitzimania @licensed-fan-girl

@xreaderficlove @laurakirsten0502 @xuckduck @measure-in-pain

@ashwarren32 @peculiarinsomniac @sunnysaysbookreviews

@princesswagger17 @samuel-de-champagne-problems

@shemarmooresfedora @drayshadow @singularityjc @nushie-smushie @yikesyikesyikes95 @mac99martin @sweetandsunny

[jayybear]

the backpedaling to be more "platonic" hurt my soul 😭

ok ok so getting lost in the museum was genuinely an adorable touch. like, spence is just so focused on YOU that he doesn't remember where to go/where you guys have been. him getting flustered and lost for words only with YOU. ahh, its so precious. im a total sucker for that

the description of spencers eyes!! my heart literally started fluttering because that description was pure love 🥺 (also, I love jellyfish so that exhibit would've been my favorite too!)

oh no :( the thought process and inevitable panic at the end there had my heart hurting. poor babies

I loved this and can't wait to see what happens next! your writing is incredible. I know I said it before, but it really does feel like something real. like, these are thoughts I've actually had/would have and I adore that.

please add me to your tag list if you're still accepting people, angel 🖤 thank you for writing and sharing your work 🥰

[fiftyshadesofspencerreid]

do the stars gaze back ?

overview: the reader is hopelessly, head over heels in love with spencer (the other option is that they believe they have carbon monoxide poisoning) and thinks he doesn't feel the same way.

genre: angsty-ish (?), fluff-ish(?), PINING (so much pining), friends to lovers teehee

pairing: spencer reid x gn!reader

a/n: hiii ! omg this is my first ever fanfic and asdhfsdfjhgdhjfs i'm super scared and excited rn. i just wanna say tysm for taking the time to read this and especially thank you to @samuel-de-champagne-problems, @jemilyisms and @spencerreidat3am for taking a look at my drafts ! i totally was not projecting onto reader, the entire time, and writing about my real-life scenario where my i'm in love with my best friend and she doesn't like me back ahahahah. anyways if anyone wants to cry about unrequited love come to me and lets cry together. the title is based on this stardust quote and idk it kinda fits the theme of unknown unrequited love - ahhh i'm just waffling at this point. i hope you enjoy the fic :) <3 !

-

-

it had been a couple weeks since you’d last hung out with Spencer by yourself. after forcing him to re-watch your favourite film ‘stardust’ for the 80th time together, you found yourself tucked away in his arms; his hands tracing circles gently against your back, whilst you both lay on the sofa.

you’d almost confessed there and then.

it hadn’t been the first time that you both sought each other out whilst watching a film; you were always almost touching in some way or another. a head on a shoulder. legs draped across one another. pinkies intertwined. it had taken him a long time to get used to your love language, touch, and now you both of you couldn’t go too long without touching each other in some way. platonically of course.

but this time you could barely suppress your feelings – the overwhelming urge to look up at him and tell him there and then that you were in love with him. Spencer Walter Reid.

i mean, at least you were pretty you were in love with him. when you first began to question these feelings you searched up your symptoms: slight dizziness (when he wore his favourite cologne), shortness of breath (whenever he platonically flirted with you), heart palpitations (whenever he came near you and brushed his hands against yours). unhelpfully, these were also symptoms of carbon monoxide poisoning - so the jury was still out on whether it truly was love.

you’d given up watching on the film halfway through that night – you could practically recite it anyway (you knew for a fact that he could too) - and instead focused on him. Spence’s eyes were still focused on the television screen.

your eyes were drawn back to his lips – in a definitely nonsexual, nonfuckingcreepy way. you just loved the way he smiled. the way he would slightly poke his tongue out whilst he beamed. you loved the way he laughed; the way he would throw his head back and his eyes would light up. you loved the way he cared about his mom, cared about the team, cared about everyone. he was the sweetest soul you’d ever met – the way he would look after JJ after a long day or how he would check up on Garcia when the team was working on a tough case. you loved the way he loved and protected and cherished the ones closest to him. and you hated that you couldn’t tell him.

“you’re staring again, (y/n).” he’d said smirking, that day on the couch, whilst the credits of stardust rolled.

and in that moment, in his arms, you wanted to tell him. tell him that you couldn’t sit in a room without staring at him because he was your world, your everything. but instead, you did what you did best – and forced down all those feelings that you’d tried to convince yourself were insignificant because spencer did not like you the same way you liked him. and you couldn’t risk that. you couldn’t risk losing him. he was too important – too significant in your life to lose him over something as stupid as your feelings.

you’d rolled your eyes at him and told him to “fuck off”, as you left the warmth of his arms and made your way to the kitchen in hope that he hadn’t seen how flushed your face was.

and it was there you told yourself that you couldn’t do this anymore. you couldn’t let yourself get too close to him because jesus fucking christ it hurt too much to know that he would never feel the same way as you did.

and you stuck to your words. for the next couple of weeks, you avoided him successfully (well as successfully as you could considering that you both saw each other every day at work, were paired together on your most recent case and literally spent every waking second together). but you’d avoided spending any substantial time alone together – you sat next to Morgan on the plane (opposed to your usual seat next to Spencer), thankfully you got to share a room with JJ, and as embarrassing as it was every time you saw Spencer around the local precinct, you quickly turned the other direction to avoid bumping into him.

you told yourself it would be fine. it was fine. you were fine. this tiny crush (more like this monumental mass of love that was crushing your whole existence) would soon disappear, and things would be back to normal in no time (i mean who were you kidding it had been nearly a whole year since you’d realised that you a felt a certain way about a certain doctor).

but things were genuinely fine for the next couple of days.

until they weren’t.

your luck had run out – because this weekend you and spencer had tickets to go to the local aquarium.

i mean had you known months ago that you’d end up making yourself promise that you’d avoid your best friend then obviously you wouldn’t have booked tickets. but it was the aquarium (one of his favourite places on earth) and there was a brand-new exhibition about the conservation of jellyfish (one of his favourite animals on earth) and you’d booked the tickets in the spur of the moment without even asking him because it just felt right (once you told him that you booked the tickets, he agreed to come immediately, enveloping you in his arms - thanking you over and over again for thinking about him so selflessly).

and now you couldn’t refund your ticket or cancel last minute (you were pretty sure he had no idea that you were avoiding him, if spencer hadn’t realised by now that you were hopelessly in love with him there was no way he would’ve realised you were doing everything in your power to stop feeling the way you felt).

so, there you were stuck in this predicament – forced to pretend that you weren’t in love with the love of your life for a solid three hours, all by yourselves on a rainy saturday afternoon.

[jayybear]

oh my god, I wanted to read this a little bit ago but I got so busy. I'm sorry, love! im so happy I did though, because this is absolutely precious!

im actually really afraid of touch, but ive always desperately wanted to move past that. touch being the love language here made my heart so happy. it makes me want to try even harder to heal and learn to find comfort in something so gentle 🖤

the way you describe spence is just so spot on! the poking out little tongue almost killed me, it was so cute. I also loved how the reader ran away. I think having the courage to be honest about emotions is awesome, but being afraid is way more of an honest response. this felt real and raw, and I can't express enough how much I adored it.

now im gonna run off to part two because I NEED TO SEE WHAT HAPPENS NEXT 🖤

[squiggledrop]

No Strings - Spencer Reid x Reader

Masterlist

Part 2: Frayed Ends

Part 3: Tying the Knot

Summary: Spencer and Reader have a friends with benefits arrangement. The only problem is, they both have feelings for each other. When Spencer admits his feelings, Reader doesn’t know if she can let herself give in to hers.- Song fic to Sex by Eden

Word Count: 4.1k

Pairings: Spencer Reid x Reader

Category: Angst, Smut (NSFW, 18+)

Warnings: Sex (oral and penetration)

Three months ago you and Spencer made a deal. Both of you were in desperate need of some sexual release, so it only made sense to help each other out. However, before engaging in your sexual relationship, you made sure to set some ground rules. The most important one being: no strings attached. 

For the past three months, everything had been great. You were more relaxed at work, and it was nice being able to find a sexual partner in a friend because it eliminated the awkwardness of finding a one night stand. Spencer was sleeping better, the horrors of his workdays didn’t seem as bad knowing he had someone to go to each night to let out all his frustration at the world. It was nice having someone, even if it was strictly physical. 

The team had just gotten back from a case, and, like always, you drove Spencer and yourself to his apartment to let off some steam. When you stepped inside, Spencer pushed you up against the door causing it to slam shut. His plump lips attached to yours as his hands ran up your back. You shuddered under his touch and moaned into the kiss, giving him more access which he gladly accepted. He used one hand to grab your cheek and the other to trace the curves of your body. You ran your fingers through his hair as you pressed yourself further into him. He moaned at the added friction to his crotch and began massaging your hip, only intensifying the heat that swelled at your core. 

Keep reading

[daryl-dixon-daydreams]

You’d come staggering up to the gate and with one glance it was obvious that some bad shit had gone down while you were outside the high fences of the prison. He rushed to let you in and as the gate opened he took in the wide eyed stare on your face.  You were splattered with blood. You forced your feet to move and wandered in as the gate opened, though the dazed expression remained affixed on your face. After locking the gate, Daryl rushed over to you, his boots skidding a little as he stopped in the gravel. “Hey. Hey, Y/N. Look at me,” he urged. The vague expression on your face melted away as you met his blue eyes. “Ya hurt? What happened?” he asked urgently, cupping your face between his hands and searching for the source of the blood that seemed to cover your face. You reached up and tightly gripped his wrist and he could feel you trembling beneath his hands. “I—it’s not my blood.” The words came out in a whisper and Daryl gulped nervously.  He nudged his nose up in a nod and his fingers slipped from you. “C’mon. Let’s get you cleaned up. S’alright.” A few minutes later, Daryl had you sitting on the edge of your bunk and had returned with some clean cloths and a bucket of warm water. He pulled a chair up in front of you until your knees were almost touching. Your eyes were downcast and you were as silent as stone. He dipped one of the cloths into the warm water and gently wiped the blood from your face. “So, ya wanna tell me what happened out there?” You closed your eyes as the cloth dabbed at your cheek. “Why do the best intentions always turn out badly?” you asked softly. Daryl paused for a moment and watched your eyelashes flutter open, revealing the strikingly beautiful colors of your irises. He resumed his ministrations as you went on. “There was a couple out there. A man and a woman. I was trying to help them…” Daryl felt anger rising in his chest. Of course you were trying to help someone. That was just you. “I thought they were okay. Not threats. I was going to bring them back here.” Daryl dipped the cloth back into the water and swirled it until the rusty red color dissolved. He wrung it out and smoothed it across your forehead, wiping away the splatters of dried blood. 

“They—they started attacking me. I had to—” your throat tightened and stopped all speaking. Daryl leaned back and met your eyes, which were shining a little with remorseful tears. “Ain’t yer fault. Ya were trying to help ‘em.” You ducked your head and wrung your hands. “Hey. Look at me.” Your eyes met his again. “Yer too damn good for this world. Thas all. Ya didn’t have a choice. Ya had to defend yerself.” He resumed his steady care, his finger accidentally brushing your cheek. “So are you,” you told him. 

Prompt: “Why do the best intentions always turn out badly?”

[jayybear]

my heart 🥺 this is so gentle and exactly what I needed to read right now. I loved it and appreciate you so much for writing it 🖤

[differentkettleoffishalltogether]

An Inconvenient Affection [Chapter 1]

Summary: When a couples’ therapist is suspected of murdering his own patients, Y/N and Spencer must go undercover as a feuding married couple to draw him out.

A/N:  This is the first part in a series, thank you so much for the response to the teaser! I hope you guys enjoy, and any feedback is always appreciated! ❤️

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader 

Category: Fake Dating, Friends to Lovers, (Eventual) Smut, Fluff, Angst

Warnings: alcohol consumption, language, criminal minds typical violence, murder mention, suicide mention, stalking, cheating, please let me know if I’ve missed anything!

Word Count: 4.4k

Next Chapter 

Series Masterlist

Read it on AO3

Masterlist 

“He’s forcing one to kill the other” Spencer mutters under his breath, staring so intently at the photos pinned the the cork board that he must be able to see through them by now.

“Pardon?” Y/N pipes up from her perch at the opposite end of the room, surrounded by imposing stacks of files, photos, newspaper clippings, anything to give her something even resembling a leg up on this case.

Spencer turns sharply on his heel to face the team, his hands contorted as he speaks, “The unsub, he’s abducting couples but I think he could be forcing one to kill the other” he states it louder this time, tearing a photo down from the board and walking it over.

Keep reading

[jayybear]

oh my god, I absolutely adore this! the undercover friends to lovers idea is my favorite trope and I've been desperately searching for it. I can't wait to read more 🖤

[jokersqueenofchaos]

What do you say? (Part 2)

A/N: An unexpected part 2 to my first ever story “What do you say?” and my first time writing NSFW content. Whoops this turned out so much longer, I guess I just went with it. Thank you @theonetryingtolive for proofreading again! Thank you so much, darling <3

Also tagging @themightyloki since you were asking for a second chapter and @fandoms-are-my-friends-1321 because you wanted to be tagged in anything else I might produce for this fandom. Hope it’s alright!

Summary: Unexpected Part 2. It’s going to get spicy when reader and Donny finally have a moment for themselves.

Words: 4536

Warnings: NSFW content ahead, smut, oral (female receiving), sex, fluff, Hirschberg being an innocent cinnamon roll

“We are all going to sleep in a proper bed tonight?” Omar inquired excitedly, eyes glistening from the promise of at least one night the Basterds would not have to sleep on the ground in a forest.

“Seems like it.” Aldo gave back when looking around the empty house you guys had found just outside of the small town in which the Basterds had some business to take care of next. This place seemed to have been abandoned not too long ago and the Lieutenant decided to stay there. It was big enough to provide a comfortable place to sleep for everyone on the team as well as a kind of living room with a fireplace to get warm. There also happened to be a kitchen that you could still make use of and you quickly decided to get a hot meal other than stew done for the boys. The supplies were limited but it was enough to make some fried potatoes for everyone. You put Hirschberg, Utivich and Omar on peeling-duty while you cleaned and prepared the biggest pan you could find in one of the cabinets.

“Man, peeling so many will take forever.” Hirschberg groaned after he had taken care of only three small potatoes while Omar and Utivich did their job efficiently and without complaint because they knew you were the one in charge if it was about cooking. “No matter what it was you whispered into Donny’s ear the other day but I bet for you he would have peeled and cut those in a matter of seconds. Will you really not tell us what it was?”

There came no answer to his question. It was a couple of days after the moment you and Donny had shared by the campfire and as intense as it was, it left you hoping for more. Though you and him never happened to catch another moment alone with one another since then.

Throughout these days almost every single Basterd came up to you at some point and tried to ask you what it was that you had whispered into their Sergeant's ear. Most of them tried to just act casual about it but failed miserably, so it stayed a secret.

Now, you only smiled to yourself and nonchalantly put a stack of plates and cutlery in front of Hirschberg. “Go and set the table, Gerold.” Your tone was sweet but at the same time there was no room left to argue and he knew it.

He grumbled some more when leaving the kitchen and heading for the table by the fireplace while his comrades snickered about his antics. Soon the table was finally set, the food ready to be served and everyone gathered around the table, eating, drinking, laughing. You did not know how but Aldo seemed to produce a bottle of whiskey out of nowhere and shared it with his soldiers.

As soon as every plate was empty, you sent the boys off to bed or relax by the fireplace and insisted to take care of the dishes yourself. Once you were done, you sat on top of the counter next to the sink, taking off your shoes and letting your now bare and aching feet dangle in the air. You liked sitting like that, in a spot where your feet would not touch the ground. It always helped you to relax and you watched your toes as they wiggled a bit.

In the quiet of the moment your thoughts wandered back to Donny and a smile tucked at the corners of your mouth. He tried to sneak looks at you the whole night at the dinner table and probably thought you hadn't noticed. But you had. Since the campfire incident you just couldn't get the Sergeant and his dazed eyes on you off of your mind.

A soft knock snapped you out of your dreamy state and you looked up to see Donny casually leaning in the doorframe, an almost empty glass of whiskey in his hand and a small smile on his face.

"Hey," he said, tracing the rim of the glass with one fingertip.

"Hey, yourself." You smiled back at him.

There was a short moment of silence with just you two regarding each other intently before Donny drowned what was left of the liquor and pushed himself off of the doorframe, not breaking eye contact. The floorboards creaked under his heavy boots until they came to a halt in front of the sink.

"Food was damn good," Donny complimented and busied himself with rinsing out the glass, his eyes now fixed on what his hands were doing.

"Thank you, but it was just some lousy fried potatoes." A grin spread across your face as well as a tiny blush on your cheeks.

"I know, but it's still damn good," he chuckled while grabbing the rag off the counter to dry the freshly cleaned item. When Donny set the glass down on the counter, he paused for a second.

"May I ask you something?" He turned his head so he could look at you again, his tone rather serious. Since you were still sitting on top of the kitchen counter you were way closer to his face than usual. Beautiful brown eyes framed with lashes to die for, his thick dark brows furrowed and these wonderfully full lips slightly parted in anticipation, all on full display for you to enjoy.

"Uhm... Yeah, sure." You couldn't pull your gaze from him. "What is it?"

"It's about what you said to me the other day by the campfire." His voice was low, almost raspy.

"What about it?" You knew what you had said and now you were waiting anxiously for his reaction. Your heart was beating so hard against your ribs you feared they might break. Back in that moment by the campfire the Sergeant had definitely been all in, but what if he had changed his mind by now?

"That, uhm... that did things to me," he admitted with a breathy chuckle. His gaze dropped and followed his own fingertips as they gingerly touched your knee, seemingly lost in thoughts for a moment. You wondered what he was thinking of…

"You know," Suddenly each of his hands found one of your legs, easily opening them enough to step in between. Now it was his turn to make you speechless as he put his lips to your ear. "I liked having you so close. I liked it a lot." Donny's grip on your thighs tightened as he pulled you closer to the edge of the counter, closer to the heat of his body. Your breath got stuck in your throat and you could only stare at him with wide eyes and wait, heart still pounding in your chest but now for a much more pleasant reason.

"Would you really wear my Red Sox shirt for me?" Donny inquired in a warm, yet earnest voice while meeting your gaze. You slowly blinked and nodded your head. "I would."

A heavy breath exited Donny's nose as he pressed his forehead to yours and one of his hands wandered from your thigh to the small of your back in one smooth go.

"Then I want to have you all to myself. I want you to be mine." Donny's words came out deep and thick with desire and his hands momentarily tightened their hold on you, emphasizing his words. "Only mine."

He mimicked your move from a few days ago and nudged his nose to yours. "What do you say?" He raised his brows expectantly, his brown orbs fixed on you, hoping you would let him have you.

"If I'm only yours," you said while your hands started to wander up his brawny arms and came to a halt on his shoulders. "...are you only mine, as well?"

"Absolutely, princess. I am yours," Donny rasped "Only yours."

A sudden wave of relief washed over you two, smiles stretching across both of your lips, both of you feeling it. Something had shifted between you and him for good.

As if to seal the deal, Donny cupped the side of your face in his palm, thumb drawing small circles on your cheekbone, before leaning in to slowly but deliberately put his lips to yours.

The kiss was sweet, his mouth astonishingly soft while moving against your own. Your head went spinning and your fingers began combing through his hair at the back of his head, his lips tasting like whiskey and the promise of more.

Donny pulled back to look at you, before this smirk of his made those dimples reappear that you loved so much. “I need you. All of you.” He whispered to which you could only nod your head. You knew what he meant and sweet God did you want the same. When he reconnected your lips, he kissed you with an urgency that took your breath away, arms going tight around your figure, tongues brushing against each other and pulling little sighs from you. A groan rumbled from Donny’s chest and he held you close to pick you up from the counter, one arm around your waist and the other supporting your haunches. Squeaking in surprise you clung to him tight.

The Sergeant swiftly carried you out of the kitchen and over to the room he had chosen as his for that night, observantly avoiding the top of each doorframe on the way so you would not hit your head. Missing out on a wide-eyed Hirschberg who happened to pass by at the other end of the small hallway in that moment, Donny kicked the bedroom door shut behind him with the heel of his boot.

He proceeded to sit down on the edge of the bed with you in his lap, never once breaking the kiss. Your hands made quick work of the buttons of his shirt and pushed it off to reveal his white undershirt and suspenders and you pulled back to take him in. The sight of Donny in that outfit was something to make your knees go weak. It was the same attire you had seen him in when you had crossed paths with the Basterds for the very first time. Back then, with his muscly arms and shoulders exposed, grip tight around the handle of the baseball bat and his body language oozing with self-confidence as he had been walking up to the Nazi-Officer before taking him down in a demonstration of sheer vigor, Donny had made you feel so hot and bothered. That hadn’t changed ever since.

“I like you in that shirt and suspenders,” you admitted with a giggle while tracing both fabrics with your hands, playfully tugging on one suspender to let it snap back down against his chest. “It’s really hot on you, you know.”

Donny chuckled a low, “Then I will leave it on for you just a bit longer,” before he pulled your own shirt above your head and sucked on the side of your neck, finding your sweet spot. His callused hands dragged up from your waist to cup your breasts and circle your hardening nipples with his thumbs, causing goosebumps. The soft moan that came through your parted lips made Donny hum against your skin and you could feel his growing excitement from underneath you. He quickly turned around to lay you down onto the thin mattress and quickly busied his lips with your nipples and his fingers with the buttons on your pants. Wearing a dress would have made things easier in the bedroom but ever since you were on the road with the Basterds, wearing pants turned out to be much more convenient. Donny didn’t seem to mind, though. Before you were able to register, your pants and underwear were gone, leaving you completely naked under Donny’s eager touch while he was still completely clothed.

Growling, his lips wandered downwards and over your belly in a matter of seconds, dropping wet open-mouthed kisses as they went. He wanted to finally taste you and the dog tags around his neck clinked together while dragging over your skin, sending tickles and tingles through your body. As he came closer and closer to your center you couldn’t help a sudden twinge of insecurity coursing through your veins and you grabbed Donny’s head to stop him.

“What…what are you doing?” You choked out although you knew very well what he was going for. You both knew that the other was no virgin anymore but the exact extend of your sexual experience was still limited and mostly unknown to him. As appealing as the thought of his heavenly lips on your most sensitive parts was, you had no experience in being on the receiving end of oral sex. According to your best friend from back home – who used to be your main source for spicy information while growing up - every man she had ever had, had just complained about how unpleasant they found it to be. They had considered it more as a chore than something enjoyable and now you feared Donny would feel the same about it.

His eyes shot up to meet yours and he could see how conflicted and self-conscious you felt about his advances. Slowly he went back up, completely covering your smaller form underneath himself protectively and put his hands on each side of your head to cradle it in a soothing manner.

“Shh, it’s alright. I am going to make you feel good,” he muttered and waited for your response but you seemed to have been frozen in place and could only stare at him with a tense expression. The penny dropped. “Have you ever been kissed down there?” He inquired with a curious frown. When you shook your head in return and Donny realized he would be the first one to ever pleasure you like this, he wanted to do it more than ever. He wanted to give it to you and he wanted to give it to you good.

“You don’t… you don’t have to,” you started weakly and tried to swallow down the lump in your throat.

“I would like to kiss you down there, actually.” Possessiveness and lust made his dark brown orbs turn almost pitch black. “Not because I have to, but I want to. I want to taste you… to make you feel good… to take proper care of my princess.” Each of his words was accentuated with a tender kiss to any available piece of skin on your face and neck. Being treated with so much respect really helped you to calm down again and relax back into the mattress. “I would very much enjoy that. May I do that for you, please?”

You were still damn nervous but you trusted Donny with your life and since he reassured that he did not mind, you gave him permission to go on.

He genuinely smiled and started with a deep kiss to your mouth. It was slow and easy like a lazy Sunday morning, soft and sensual. There was no need to hurry anymore when he went back down on you and petted and nibbled his way across your jaw, neck and chest, quickly finding out how much you enjoyed the attention he paid to your hardened nipples. Donny stayed there for a moment to pamper both your breasts with more gentle caresses, kisses and nibbles. He then continued further down your body, all the while the tickle of the dog tags around his neck added to your steadily growing arousal.

Your head was spinning from desire, excitement and anticipation for the new experience Donny was about to grant you. In an attempt to anchor yourself you closed your eyes, took a few deep breaths and let your fingers tangle in the thin bedsheets.

Donny massaged your waist and hips before he carefully parted your legs and traced hot kisses from your knee, along the inside of your thigh and further down. The three days worth of stubble on his face added a delicious scratch to every touch of his mouth on your skin while one of his large hands cupped your sex and applied only light pressure to see if you felt comfortable. When a needy moan escaped your throat, Donny took it as his cue to lift his palm and use his fingers to gently part the lips of your pussy. When he discovered you to be soaking wet for him already, a deep hum rumbled from his chest and he nuzzled the soft hair on your pubic bone. “Hmm, you smell so nice.”

No doubt you were absolutely turned on and wanted him to do to you anything he pleased, curious for the unknown sensation but the bashfulness about your inexperience still got the better of you and made you hide your face in your hands at last.

“Look at me, princess,” Donny ordered softly to which you moved your fingers so you could peek out from between them. “It’s going to feel good. If it doesn’t, just tell me and I stop. Don’t worry, I got ‘ya.”

With that said, he flattened his tongue and licked a long lazy stripe up your glistening folds and around your aching clit before kissing and slightly sucking it into his mouth. He hummed in approval, sending pleasant vibrations through you and released it with a small pop of his lips. Keeping his eyes connected to yours the whole time, he pulled a sweet sigh from you. “You taste wonderful.”

He repeated the action several times and with every drag of his tongue a delightful warmth spread through your belly and your volume increased significantly. Donny beamed with pride when you couldn’t keep the moans inside anymore and tried to muffle them with your palms. Ever since he had heard you sing when you had prepared a stew for the boys for the first time, he had wondered what kind of sweet sounds could be pulled from you in the bedroom. Each noise you made had the Sergeant’s skin buzz with desire.

“Let me hear you, princess. I need to hear how much you enjoy yourself,” Donny breathed while he put a finger to your entrance and carefully pushed it inside to quickly find another sweet spot of yours, you had no idea even existed. Jesus fucking Christ, Donny Donowitz knew exactly what to do to reduce you to a desperately whimpering mess.

“The others will hear…,” you choked out as quietly as you could.

“Let them. I don’t care.” He muttered while his finger was working a patiently steady rhythm in and out of you, curling here and there until your concerns about being heard vanished into thin air.

“God, Donny, please…” Finally, your hands left your face and went straight to his hair, pulling it and scratching his scalp. He added a second finger and you were on the brink of losing your mind, muscles tight around his digits, your back arching off the bed. He knew you were almost there.

“Let go, (Y/N), it’s okay,” he reassured and with only a few more swirls of his tongue you tripped over the edge and let the waves of pleasure course through your veins and consume you completely. It was like nothing else you had ever felt before. Burning like fire but in the most pleasurable way. Not even when you had touched yourself in the past did you ever have an orgasm quite like this. The unintelligible noises coming from you rang like music in his ears.

“There you go,” Donny praised sweetly when removing his fingers, sucking them clean with relish and kissing his way back up your body. While you were still coming down from your high, eyes closed and senses clouded with everything that was him, he was back hovering above you and brushed his lips against your forehead. “You okay?” He asked with an amused smirk when he saw the still dazed-out expression on your face.

“Hm-m,” you purred contently and blindly gestured at nothing in particular before your hands dropped back to the mattress like stones. You sighed the only word that was left on your mind right then, “Bliss.”

An affectionate laugh from Donny made you open your eyes again and he quickly pecked your panting lips and sat back up on his knees. The Sergeant looked down on you with a smug grin on his face. Gosh, those dimples.

Keeping eye contact with you he removed his dog tags. He was fond of wearing them but for what was to come next, they would be in the way. Then he reached for the suspenders to let them slip off his shoulders and tugged on his undershirt to pull it off. You kept a close look on him while he did so and the sight of his exposed chest made you bite your lip in a state of entrancement. With a wink Donny got off the bed to swiftly rid himself of his remaining clothes and was back above you in record time.

Once he was completely naked as well you couldn’t help but let your gaze wander over the dark hair on his broad chest and down to where it formed a path between his belly button and his now proudly erect member. Your eyes went wide. He was gorgeous and you longed for him to finally be inside you but you still wondered if it would hurt at first due to his considerable size and girth.

“Something wrong?” Donny must have noticed your moment of concern and brushed a strand of tousled hair from your face.

“No, no, it’s alright, it’s just… you’re a big guy.” You gave him a playfully pointed look before cupping his cheek and adding a little more seriously, “Just take it easy, okay?”

“Of course, princess.” He smiled sweetly and kissed the palm of your hand. Donny continued to kiss his way up your arm, over your collarbones and along your neck until he was back at your mouth. Hmm, you could taste yourself on him. Then he reached in between your bodies to take ahold of himself and drag his tip up and down your folds, spreading moisture and teasing your clit until you were squirming underneath him again. Your hooded eyes were begging him to go further.

That was the exact picture he had created in his fantasy and Donny had to try real hard to keep it together. Eventually he started to push inside carefully, searching your face of any kind of discomfort and was more than happy to find none.

Once he was as deep as he could go, he stayed there and let you adjust to the feeling of being stretched anyhow. Both of you groaned from pleasure and it only took you a heartbeat to get comfortable. You wrapped your arms and legs around him and nodded. He felt perfect in all the right places.

As he started to move, Donny propped himself up on one elbow, his hand on the back of your head and let his other roam your body, gently squeezing your hip. Your fingers raked through his hair and pulled him down for an intimate kiss, his tongue definitely winning the battle. He pulled away from your lips to nibble at your neck and rocked into you with increasing force. The two of you let the sighs and moans fall from your lips freely and the old bed underneath you creaked with equal volume. There was this sweet pressure forming in your belly again, building up more and more but not quite enough to let you tip over the edge just yet.

“Touch yourself,” Donny ordered when meeting your eyes again, your brows furrowed in confusion, his in desperation. He knew he couldn’t hold out much longer. Looking incredibly sexy while doing so, he quickly snatched one of your wrists from around his neck, put two of your fingers into his mouth coating them with salvia and pushed your hand in between your bodies.

“Touch yourself, princess. I want you to come for me again,” Donny rumbled urgently and you could do nothing but obey. The circles that your fingers drew on your clit and the friction he provided let you come undone in mere seconds. Clinging to his body with everything you had, you pulsed around him and bit his shoulder in a fruitless attempt to muffle your desperate moans of release. Donny followed immediately and nothing you had ever heard before ever sounded as erotic as him losing himself inside of you.

Still holding onto each other tightly you were a bundle of tangled limbs and ragged breaths as you shared another deep kiss before Donny pulled out and laid next to you. He gathered you in his arms, one hand scratching your scalp, the other lazily tracing your spine while your fingers played with the hair on his chest. This felt so right. Suddenly, a pounding knock on the door roused both of you from the delicious aftermath.

“You done in there, already?”, Aldo’s voice demanded to know from the other side. Your eyes went wide with embarrassment and one of your hands flew up to cover your mouth. The Sergeant kept eye contact with you while a smug expression crept onto his features.

“Dunno yet, Lieutenant,” he said out loud, obviously teasing Aldo, giving you a sly wink. “Probably not.”

If looks could kill, Donny would have dropped dead right there and then. You smacked his shoulder and continued to glare at him.

“Damn it, Donowitz, everyone heard ‘ya. Poor kid Hirschberg is probably going to have nightmares for the next few weeks.” At the last part, even the Lieutenant could not hide a chuckle before he started to retreat from the door again. “Either way, at least try to keep it quiet now.”

“Oh God.” You hid your face in Donny’s shoulder whishing the awkwardness of this situation away with all your might. “I knew, everyone would hear us.”

“Hey.” Donny gently took your chin between his fingers making you look at him again. “Don’t worry about them, princess. If anyone dares to say anything to you, they will have to put up with me first. Let them know, you are mine now and I’m not going to let you go again. I will always keep you safe.”

His words made you care less about the others and feel warm and fuzzy all over again, so you settled your head back into the crook of his neck.

It was quiet for a moment before Donny spoke up again in a more playful tone. “Besides, I think little Hirschberg’s rather going to have some wet dreamsfor the next couple of weeks.”

You couldn’t help the amused snort about his comment from coming out. “Possible,” you giggled, most of the tension dissipating again when your own playfulness returned. Finding yourself at ease again, you swiftly got up and moved to straddle the Sergeant’s waist. “It’s too late now anyway, so... We might as well just have some more fun.”

Donny mirrored your grin before pulling you down into another deep kiss. “Sounds good.”

[jokersqueenofchaos]

What do you say? (Part 1)

A/N: The very first thing I ever wrote. No English native speaker. I have some more ideas for stories but let’s see how you guys out there like this one first :) A big THANK YOU to @theonetryingtolive​ and @notcallingyoualiar​ for proofreading and giving me feedback and advice. I hope I did it right. Love you guys <3

 Summary: Reader states that all it takes for a woman to disarray a man is the right outfit. Donny thinks it’s impossible but reader proves him wrong.

Words: 1598

Warnings: adult language, sexual tension  

 „I’m just saying, it’s not like women had no weapons at all. We don’t always need guns and grenades to get what we want.”, you stated sitting around the campfire with the Basterds one lazy afternoon. You grew pretty close to these men over the last months, trusted them with your life, loved them like the bunch of big brothers you had always wished for and they treated you just as protectively as big brothers would. You felt comfortable.

Donny, however, was the one on the team, who you not only had brotherly feelings for. Acting upon those feelings was difficult, though. There hadn’t really been the opportunity to test the waters, yet. The Sergeant was always a little flirty with you when none of the others was nearby, even let you carry his treasured baseball bat a few times, but you guessed it was because that’s just how he was combined with the fact, that you were the only girl around. If it was for “normal” circumstances you were damn sure Donny would not look at you a second time.

“Yeah, if I had what you have between those legs, I wouldn’t need ammunition at all!”, Donny said without seriously mocking you but still with an obvious amount of tease in his voice. He really liked to tease you quite a bit. What you did not know was the actual motive behind it.

Teasing you would make you throw playful punches at his arms or ruffle his hair or shove against his chest but mostly it would make you give him an adorable piercing glance and a smile that he wished were reserved for himself only. Therefore, teasing was his way of having you touch him without being too obvious about it in front of the others.

“Why does it always have to be about my pussy?”, you bluntly asked while looking him straight in the eye. The careless mention of your private parts put a fierce blush on Hirschberg’s face.

“Why does every man always have to reduce a woman to what is under her skirt?”, you feigned hurt and disbelieve.

Donny took a breath to explain himself but before he could have said anything in return, you cut him short and went on.

“It’s not about my pussy, it’s about the promise of it.”, you said slowly, which made Omar and Utivich look at you curiously, while Hirschberg kept his eyes to the ground for now, still struggling with his crimsoned cheeks.

“What do you mean by that?”, came Wicki’s voice.

“I believe that for every man there is a weak spot and you just have to find out what it is.”, you started to explain while turning back to Wicki, who you were having this conversation with in the first place anyway. “Something that will make him let his guard down. Like only the right attitude or flutter of your lashes or outfit on a woman and a man will lose his mind.”

The snicker that came from Donny sounded amused. “And you think you’re that good and know all them secrets? Don’t get me wrong but that’s impossible.”

Then, you wanted – no needed – to prove your point and shove it right into his handsome face.

“For example, I know exactly what to wear to get you off in an instant, Sergeant.”, you retorted cheekily when meeting his gaze across the sizzling campfire.

“Is that so? And what might that be?”, Donny challenged with his signature smirk.

“Do you want me to say it out loud…”, you challenged back with raised brows while slightly leaning forward, “… or come over and whisper in your ear?”

Donny took a moment to think before he answered. Were you right or were you just bluffing? You seemed pretty confident about yourself. If you were actually right, he did not want the others to listen to it.

“Whisper to me, sweetheart.”, Donny then said.

A mischievous smile came over your face. It’s now or never.

He was caught completely off guard when you swiftly stood and rounded the campfire to then casually drop yourself onto his lap, facing him. He had expected you to just bend down or sit next to him. That was the most body contact you two had shared up to that point and it was initiated by you.

Donny’s eyes went wide and his breath got stuck in his throat. Unsure of what to do with his hands, he settled them loosely on your knees.

“So,”, you put your hands on his broad shoulders to pull yourself even closer to him, your behind grinding along his thighs for good measure. When you put your lips to his ear, Donny tensed but did not push you off. He was so warm. You liked this a lot.

“For the basic lay-out of my outfit I’d start with a pair of real nice, black, lace panties.” Your hushed voice fanning over his skin sent a tingling down his neck. Lace was indeed an exquisite fabric and it would, for sure, look delicious on you. Unconsciously Donny’s hands crept closer towards your hips. Still he tried to keep on a poker face because the other guys were watching both of you very intently now. They could not hear what you were saying.

“Next, there would be a Red Sox shirt. Oversized for me since it’s one of yours…”

That did it. Donny couldn’t help but let his eyes flutter shut with a huff and let this picture form in front of him. The thought of you wearing not just any but his very own shirt of his favorite baseball team sent a jolt of desire and possessiveness through his limbs and his hands shot up to hold your waist. You loved the reaction you got from him so far. He did not seem to be opposed to being so close to you at all which made your own pulse quicken rapidly. Could it be?

“…and last I would top it off with a matching pair of stockings. Nothing else.”

Donny’s brows furrowed in an almost desperate manner as his full lips parted slightly and you could hear the tiniest of whimpers coming from them, thick fingers digging into your waist more eagerly.

Fuck it, he thought. Fuck that the others were watching. Fuck the possible loss of his authority. Fuck the fact that you were indeed right, knew his weakness and proved your point thanks to himself. He wanted you so badly. Donny really cared for your sweet smile and kind soul ever since the Basterds had adopted you along their way through Nazi-occupied France.

The singing and humming when you were on cooking duty always caught his attention and Donny couldn’t help the fuzzy feeling when he daydreamed about you two in domestic bliss. But he grew even fuzzier when it was you who saved the guy’s asses once and also collected a few scalps yourself although Aldo insisted you didn’t have to. Donny then soon developed the urge to keep you save and warm but not in a brotherly way.

Now the thought of you beneath him, sprawled out in this outfit that you had created exclusively for him – willing to be with him – made his heart skip a beat. You knew him well. Donny had been secretly smitten with you already but now he was bewitched body and mind. Sweet God, you smelled so nice.

Just when he was about to burry his nose in your hair, you pulled away only far enough to face him again. Your fingers found their way up to the back of his neck on their own accord, automatically starting to play with his hair.

Donny’s eyes only opened when you carefully nudged his nose with the tip of your own.

“What do you say?”, you whispered softly while fighting for your own composure, cheeks hot and flushed. If it wasn’t for the others around you would just go ahead and kiss him senseless right there and then. It could be.

He swallowed thickly and nodded slowly, watching you through hooded eyes.

“Uh…” Donny tried to reactivate his vocal cords but had to clear his throat first. “Sounds… sounds good.”

The others were now frantically exchanging glances, trying to figure out what had just happened in front of them. What secret spell did you cast upon their Sergeant to make him visibly turn into putty beneath you?! Only Aldo was still watching you and Donny with a knowing smirk. The Lieutenant was the only one aware of the crushes that you had on each other.

“Alright, alright kids. Keep it in your pants now, will ya? (Y/N), get your ass off of Donowitz before he gets a fucking heart attack.”, Aldo ordered with a chuckle. “We still need him.”

With a fond smile on your lips and a butterfly kiss to his forehead you forced yourself up from the heat that Donny’s body emitted, noticing that his hands left you only reluctantly. When you stood and retreated to your former place across from him, Donny awkwardly tried to shift his position, so that the strain in his pants would become less dominant. His eyes followed you before crossing Aldo’s gaze. The Lieutenant winked at the Sergeant who tried to ignore the other’s catcalling. Donny made a mental note. The next time you two were alone he would dive straight in and never let you go again. Always be close, always keep you safe. In the future there would probably be way less teasing. Well, at least no unpleasant teasing anymore.

[jayybear]

I have such a hard time finding fics for donny and this was just perfect 🥰

the femme fatale aesthetic is my absolute favorite and you did such a wonderful job writing this 🖤

[thefloorisbalaclava]

"Baby..." Frankie whispers.

Straight up filth beneath the cut. You've been warned. (Nipple play, intercrural sex) *f!reader

He knows it's almost 2 am and he knows you're trying to sleep but needs you. You stir in your sleep and make a quiet sound that goes straight to his dick. He's been palming himself for the past few minutes, trying his hardest to take care of it himself, but fuck, he wants you.

"Baby." His lips are pressed to your ear and you finally blink a few times, the warmth from his body enveloping you. "You awake?" he asks.

"Yes..."

"I wanna touch you. May I touch you?" His fingers are already tracing patterns against the skin of your stomach.

"Yes, you may touch me, Frankie." And that is all you need to say. The small camisole you wore to sleep is yanked down and your breasts spill from the top of it. Frankie’s fingers are there--touching, pinching, pulling--anything to get those sounds out of you. When he gives one breast a light slap, you moan quietly. He takes his hand away for a minute then you hear a pop and when he touches your nipples again his fingers are wet with his saliva.

He takes your hand and moves it to your breast so that you're holding it for him as he takes a nipple into his mouth. He only sucks at first. He pulls away to move up and give you a sloppy kiss before moving back to your breasts, biting and pulling and leaving enough saliva behind so that even in the lowlight you can see your breasts glistening.

He pulls on your sleep shorts and you help him get them off. He quickly sucks his fingers again before slipping them between your legs.

"So fucking wet," he murmurs. "You love when I play with your tits that much, huh?"

"Yeah," you whimper as his wet fingers find your clit. You turn your head and look at him and he immediately kisses you, his tongue moving all over your mouth.

His lips are still pressed to yours when he speaks. "I'm gonna make you cum. You want that? Does my baby wanna cum?" He dips his fingers inside you but pulls them out quickly. "I don't even have to be inside you to make you cum, do I?"

You can only whimper as he pushes you onto your side and slots his dick between your thighs. He thrusts slowly, gathering your wetness along his dick. You gasp as the head bumps your clit.

"I can make you cum just like this..." He holds you against him tightly as he begins thrusting his dick between your thighs faster, rubbing against you in the best way. It doesn't take long to make you cum with a whimper of his name that turns into begging when his dick keeps bumping your clit.

"Not done yet," he breathes in your ear, thrusting faster then pulling away suddenly. He slips inside you but only enough so that his head is inside. With a cry of your name, he fills you, but since only the tip is in, a lot of it leaks out of you. You can feel it on your pussy and thighs. He's made a mess of you and you love it.

"Fuck...thank you, baby." He kisses you softly this time then pulls away to roll out of bed and walk to the bathroom. When he comes back, he climbs onto your side of the bed. "Let me clean my good girl up..." He wipes your breasts first, cleaning away any saliva that he left behind, then he pulls the camisole back over your breasts. Next he cleans between your legs, taking care to get everything he left on you.

"I'm gonna sleep really well now," you say.

"You're so fucking good to me, you know that?" he asks and you nod as he moves in for a kiss. "Hold that thought..." He runs to the bathroom again and rinses out the washcloth before coming back to bed and pulling you close. You kiss until you both are too tired to continue. You fall asleep curled up against him the way you always do.

Day 2 Day 3 Day 4 Day 5 Day 6 Day 7 Day 8 Day 9

[jayybear]

um??? holy shit??? I've literally never thought about getting off like that but its so hot omfg. how do you literally manage to awaken new things within me every damn time I read your work 😭🖤