Well Pedro dropped a new poem that proves he likes women. You can stop writing the faggot shit now.
honey, you forgot to include this part in your original message:
well, shit, it's a good thing i'm not writing about pedro then, huh?
writing about fictional characters that don't exist eases a lot of that worry for me!
sure would be a shame if he didn't have any roles that were canonically queer...
it would also be a shame if pedro himself didn't talk about how various types of queer media didn't shape him/mean a lot to him...
oh, let's not forget the writer he talks more about than any other...
or idk, all the times he's been a vocal supporter to lgbtq folks
Discover how Pedro Pascal's many actions throughout his career have solidified him as a true ally for the LGBTQ+ community.
"but that doesn't prove he's gay" i hear you say.
obviously. because he doesn't want to talk about his private life. and we should leave it there and respect his wishes.
so, coming into the inbox of a queer member of the fandom and sticking your finger in their face is not the moment you thought it was. all it's going to do is make younger/closeted queer people feel unsafe and unwelcome.
maybe instead of trying to send me a "gotcha", take this time as some self reflection because caring this much about a grown man, a stranger no less's personal life is fucking clown behavior.
also, that poem he wrote doesn't prove shit. all it proves is that he's talented in a lot of ways. if that's the outcome you got out of it, then i'm concerned for your mental wellbeing.
aka: have your little delulu fantasies but don't you dare be a homophobic/queerphobic cunt about it.
I'm so fucking serious right now.
A certain amount of people are being absolutely psychotically ridiculous right now over that Pedro poem published in the project by Mustafa (the poem isn't new, he had this on his blog in the early 2010s, btw). Within hours, people are yelling in public comments tHiS pROveS hE iS iNTo pUsSY + hEArTbRoKEn ovEr a wOmAN, PLUS sending anons to me and other queers saying 'this poem proves he's not gay!', 'stop writing f***** shit about him now!', further speculating, wanting receipts whether he ever talked about specific genders, etc.
You're losing the plot. STOP IT.
I'm not even gonna go into how appalled Pedro would be to know there's literally a Straight Crusade group that has been scouting socials since forever just to post fake stories. No, my concern is about all the queers, gays, and they's (the LGBTQIAS2+ community) among us fans -- especially the young ones, who are seeing all that anti-queerness and homophobia happening. It's 2025 and in so many countries queer rights are under attack, queer youths are suicidal at much higher rates than straight kids, and it still happens every fucking day that queers coming out means they're losing family, friends, jobs, housing, custody of kids, etcetc.
Let me clarify: I don't give a shit about Pedro's sexuality or who he sleeps with/dates. I’m not the person you’re gonna want to ask about any of that. Do I as a queer feel (and a lot of others with me) like he's been doing plenty of queer signalling through the years? Yeah, but that doesn't mean it's gospel/fact, and I'm sure as hell not trying to prove it or convince other people.
What IS a fuckin' problem though is when people and blogs are whipping up other fans into a literal frenzy, making them think that they need to 'defend' P or prove he's not gay. Sure, disect the poem and whatever else, knock yourself out, but do not send other people - especially not queers - plain ass hate about it, just because you want to impose your POV on them. Because you are harming people by making them feel like it's not okay to be queer/gay, and you're using Pedro as a means to do so. That's fucked up.
I'm not here to police anyone, but I'm telling y'all to have some common sense if this is something that you have either inadvertently or deliberately been doing. This is exactly why there are so few gay and queer male fans active in this fandom, because they see how much negativity there is at and how obsessive the compulsory heterosexuality is in some corners of the fandom. This is exactly why queer and trans folks feel unsafe to reach out and get to know other fans. This is why a lot of writers (queer and straight) often feel reluctant to write mlm/gay fanfic (be it P Boy x male reader/male OC, or P Boy x P Boy, or P Boy x canon character). This is why new queer/gay fans feel hesitant to put out work with queer representation, because they're afraid of negative comments or anons. And that SUCKS, because they want to tell their stories as much as other writers do, but it's damn hard when you look at the queer/homophobia that has been on the rise in this fandom as well as in society.
Is your ability to like his work, to like him as an actor, or even just as a person who does a lot of good stuff for marginalized communities, actually DEPENDENT on his (perceived) sexual orientation? On who he sleeps with or dates/has dated? To the point that you feel like you need to 'defend' him or prove things to other people? Because, first of all, in case nobody told you and it didn't occur to ya: he's not gonna fuck YOU. Second of all: wow. Get it together.
Finally, I can't believe I need to make this point, but: just because you don't like queers, doesn't mean they're gonna go away. Why are you reading my blog or Erin's or anyone else's tumblr that's clearly about queer stuff (we actually do indicate that already in our bio/pinned posts, you know) if you don't like it? WHY are you reading gay fanfic (which is about Pedro characters, not even RPF/Real Person Fiction, and YES - that is a very big difference) if it makes you angry? Most of all, why do you feel like it's okay to act like a fuckin asshole?
Stop reading things you don't like. Block people you don't like. Dislike stuff all you want, but just don't be a homophobic piece of shit about it.
im currently in the deepest throes of finals season and looking down having to travel for two back to back residencies so ive been highkey spaced out on here, popping in and out at my own leisure. but im showing up to add to the conversation. reminder that ive studied all of these concepts at the collegiate level for years, have experience running workshops for poc, etc. i know what im saying. blah blah blah im vetty im mexican chilean / nahua & mayan
i do not fault anyone for enjoying tlou. in fact, i encourage them to. it’s one of the most popular medias of the time with a hit hbo show and it’s one of the most successful playstation games of all time. tlou is simply something that is meant to be enjoyed. this is good! finding comfort in these times is important for all of us. but simultaneously, we need to be aware of where this comfort comes from; i.e. is it at the expense of someone else’s discomfort? consuming any storytelling is an act that cannot be apolitical. everything about writing, art, and television is political from a story’s inception to its delivery.
these critiques about tlou are not new! they’ve existed for years. many call into question in the first game the deaths of poc as an engine that powers the white characters’ stories. this is a problem that persists into the second game and the second season. tlou is also inextricable from the zionist mindset of its creator neil druckmann. once you look for these things as an audience member in a critical way, they begin to pop up everywhere.
for example, martyr’s gate. in abbys part you come across a setup where seraphites leave written prayers to their martyred leader. if the player interacts with the environment in a specific way, abby picks up one of the letters that asks for the fighting to stop. she says, offhandedly, “easy. stay on your fucking island.” this is colonizer mindset turned to the highest degree. when layered with the themes of martyring and idealism that neil is clearly critiquing, this is just one example of horrific worldviews that have wedged their way into the storyline. she also announces to her friends that killing children seraphites is acceptable and necessary if they attack first. remind you of anything?
i’ve made a separate post about show joels death, which can be found in my pinned. poc trauma is especially prevalent with abbys character: her entire storyline centers white saviorism. her past sins can be forgiven because she saves two asian kids from their evil religion, whose trauma directly propels the plot. (yaras amputation, lev killing his mom, yaras death). the game never actually considers abby’s past actions. she changes in the course of about two days and we are expected to see this as a well rounded character arc as if she wasn’t the right hand woman of someone who yall watched brutally torture someone on live television last sunday. ive also heard a sound bite from the show: “i don’t care if they’re women kids or fucking babies look what they did! kill them all!” manny — a full blown stereotype of mexican culture — has his eye shot out by tommy. tommy later loses his eye to show consequences. neils pivotal ideology of “an eye for an eye”
and that’s just in abbys part. in ellies part, she tortures and then kills nora. jesse dies at abbys hand.
if i can write 3 entire paragraphs without even scratching the surface of the games intrinsic, racist properties, there’s a problem.
the issue is not engaging with this media. the issue lies in how it is consumed, and how it is addressed in internet spaces. this is not a dogshit take. the torture porn and racism is EMBEDDED into the plot. there is not a tlou without it. this is undeniable. attempting to deny it is to make attempts to save your own skin in lieu of poc begging you to experience this content with some level of consciousness about its origins.
it hurts to see the people we poc share this platform with brushing over our trauma and using it as fodder for their fanfiction and entertainment. it just does. especially when the vast majority of all of us have experienced this trauma firsthand or generationally to a degree that most white people have been lucky enough to be spared from.
denying that tlou is racist is simply a racist take. interacting with tlou is not something that is inherently racist in and of itself. this seems to be where the mix up has occurred. the mix up has also occurred on our end; for thinking that our experiences would be empathized with. or that certain members of the fandom would move forward with a larger degree of awareness. we know better than to think we’ll be taken seriously these days.
ive seen arguments like: the actors knew what they were getting themselves into! other poc disagree with you!
1- acting is an industry. many of the tlou hiring stories happened quickly without the specifics of the storyline being shared. pedro had the first 3 scripts and confirmation that he’d die; likely not HOW he would die.
2- poc are not a monolith. we can also be racist. we can also partake in racist ideology. we can also have differing views on this. i think most of us agree, though, that neil is a piece of shit whose perspective inundates the game.
that’s my piece. im missing some stuff but i typed this on my phone between finals. so 🐛
poc you will always be safe on my blog and with me. we can enjoy parts of tlou while disgracing other parts of it.
it’s beyond disheartening to see so many people tone policing BIPOC voices lately and I am truly at a loss for words. No one, and I mean no one is saying that you cannot continue to engage with and watch TLOU season 2. That is not the point that people are trying to make. It is simply for you and others to critically think and process the media that you are choosing to engage with. When a BIPOC expresses their feelings towards something and why it upsets them for VERY valid reasons, we, as white people, should ABSOLUTELY at the very least listen and be empathetic.
The world is an evil fucking place right now. We are pretty much living under the rule of a fascist, racist, dictator, and instead of uplifting marginalized voices, we’re instead inciting fear in a space where BIPOC should feel safe??
There is so much more I can say on what is happening, but I just hope that things change. And to the BIPOC members of the community, I am so very sorry that you have been continuously harrassed, attacked, been sent death threats, and racial slurs simply for existing and expressing your feelings.
This will never ever, ever, EVER, be seen as “fandom discourse” in my eyes. Your voices matter. Your feelings and fears matter. I am with you in any possible way that I can be.
this is the last time i'll say anything about this, hopefully, and the ppl who should read this won't, but we always end up in this conversation again and again and again. i'll put it simply for you:
to ignore the inspirations behind the last of us, to say that the people talking about it are just bitching, just complaining, saying their takes are dogshit, that their consumption of that show isn't normal is ERASURE. no one is saying you can't watch the show, no one is saying you can't enjoy it, because it's okay to critically think about media, it doesn't make you a hater.
people's lack of ability (i won't name who because we already know what i'm talking about) to differentiate critical thinking and being hateful is concerning. they genuinely believe that if you like something, you have to defend everything about it tooth and nail, and if you don't, if you even slightly agree that something about it is wrong or not well portrayed, that you're no longer a fan. open up your world view, because to view the world in such a shallow manner is harmful to not just you but the people you engage with.
i've run this word to the ground but i implore you guys to read about intersectionality, to learn how the things in the real world connect to the things in media, how perceptions of media affect our thinking, how the problems of the world come to intersect and grow from each other, and the hills that we choose to die on just to allow ourselves a few reblogs and shitposts about a show. learn nuance.
the idea of people of color advocating for themselves to be taken as a threat, being spun into some sort of attack by white people is a historical pattern, and it doesn't make it not real just because it's fandom. imploring you to learn, understand, broaden your worldview and be more accepting, more educated on the things that you consume isn't a threat, an insult, it's a suggestion that'll better more than just your tumblr experience.
also, if the creator of something says word for word that he is inspired by real life events, and you get on tumblr and say that it's simply not true, and that people are being cynical and negative and just trying to ruin the viewing experience for others. not only are your comprehension skills an issue, but your willful ignorance, your purposeful dismissal of what is important, what is being talked about for the sake of your enjoyment is genuinely something to worry about.
Hi friends! I know, I know, it’s been a minute, but I’m popping on here to gush about my dear friend @corazondebeskar who sent me the loveliest lil care package 😭😭😭 Toni, I love you so much, and thank you for being such an incredible friend 🥺🫶🏻
Synopsis: Your grief swallows you whole. And so will he. 18+ ONLY, minors do not interact.
WC: 7.0k
Content: Predator/prey (he basically hunts you in the forest), no use of y/n, kinda ooc Eddie cause he’s Kas/a vampire, discussions of grief/loss, somewhat detailed (but brief) description of eddie's scars (from the demo-bats), taunting/mocking, unprotected piv, rough sex, dirty talk, fingering, pussy pronouns, tiny bit of spit play, blowjob (kind of?).
A/N: I did a little research on Kas so some of his character is incorporated into this but I also took my own creative liberties. So this is not supposed to be a totally accurate depiction of Kas.
He must have been lurking in the murky shadows and fog clinging to the trees. Or maybe he was part of it—moving through the fog as the mist himself. Of course, you were initially ignorant to his presence, drowning in grief as you were.
The dense wood of the forest effectively dampens sound from beyond, making it easy to pick up on any snapping twigs or skittering up in high branches.
But he—it?—moved silently. Swiftly. Evading sight.
Then there was this sense. Like a sixth one kicked into gear, raising goosebumps on dewy skin. An overwhelming presence which immediately triggered your fight or flight response.
You should run. But you’d always been one to freeze. Vulnerable. Easy prey.
This time is no different. You don’t move a muscle, standing stock still in front of the large old tree stump. Staring down at the polaroid of that grinning face you miss so dearly, which lays among the trinkets and things left there by his little sheep and the band. All laid out nicely atop the stump, it’s many rings—some light, some dark—barely visible beneath the clutter. Though it will never spend another season growing additional rings.
With your heart slamming against your ribs and the blood rushing in your ears it takes you a second too long to regain control of your muscles. To flee this place–this crudely cobbled together memorial, unstained by public view & tampering.
So when you turn to leave, there he is.
You freeze. And you swear your heart stops pumping blood through your arteries. Terror taking over as your blood runs cold.
Moonlight slashes across half his face, illuminating one sparkling brown eye and a slice of that slowly spreading grin. Sharpened canines slide over dark lips, pleased to find you here.
Pinkish-red scars decorate his flesh, shredded skin healed unevenly, giving them this odd webbed effect. They begin at his jaw and crawl down his neck only to disappear beneath tattered clothing. His bat tattoo, your favourite, is present but marred by the deep scars where the demo-bats tore away at his flesh. The irony is not lost on you, but the sight is too grim to dwell on.
When he leans in closer you can smell him. An odd mimicry of Eddie. Different from before when his heart pumped blood through his veins. Something in your body naturally resistant to it, but simultaneously lured to him—an unadulterated pull. With every erratic inhale you crave more, like a smoker greedily sucking nicotine into their lungs.
You loathe to admit its intoxicating effect. Because this—this thing—can’t be Eddie. Not your Eddie. But some spectral version, warped by the mirror world.
It’s only when he speaks that you have any sort of visible reaction to him at all. Like he could’ve been some figment of your interminable grief—unbelieving in him until his acknowledgment of you.
“You’re a pretty little thing, aren’t you?”
Stupidly, you gasp in surprise, stumbling backward, hand reaching out behind you for something to tether you to this earth because surely you must have gone mad.
The rough and textured feel of bark scrapes against the sensitive skin of your palm. Though it does little to ground you.
He moves swiftly toward you again, this bona fide creature keeping close, commanding the fog to shift around you. Invading your senses. That grin is ever-growing and increasingly self-satisfied.
Though his scent is somehow subtly altered, his voice remains much the same, but with richer notes of darkness. An almost imperceptible difference. His tone differs too. It’s mocking, yes—not in the same playful way Eddie used to be—but it’s also curious, unfamiliar.
It presses the heavy implication over your heart that he doesn’t recognize you. How could that be?
The way he examines you reveals his unfamiliarity, though his eyes remain unchanged—the same shade of dark chocolate. And it is this which elicits an aching longing. One that burrows deep in your heart.
Though he looks like him. Sounds like him. And almost smells like him. It isn’t him. You know this to your marrow, like you know that the sun will rise tomorrow. It’s his body, yes. But not his mind. At least, not all of it. Clearly, it does not carry his memories.
When he reaches up, cold fingertips ghosting past your chest, your collarbones, your neck, you have to suppress a shiver. But the renewed goosebumps rising on your skin betray you.
His lips curl into a smirk, this one self-satisfied and hungry as the knuckle of his index finger grazes the sensitive flesh of your cheek. Try as you might not to, you flinch. He pouts at you mockingly, his touch unyielding.
“I could devour you, sweetheart,” he whispers, like the thought has only just come to him as his flesh met yours. Like it excites him to no end and sends the fresh scars pressed into his flesh thrumming.
“You won’t,” you say shakily, not because you know this, but because you’re hoping.
But your heart is beating out of your chest like a bunny that’s been caught between the sharp teeth of a fox, who knows it’s only a matter of time before its heart stops pounding and its blood ceases to pulse through its veins.
You wonder if he can hear it with the way his face twitches and he appears to stop and listen, savouring some near silent thumping. This has you suppressing another shiver.
Do you want him to devour you?
No.
You want him to try.
“I won't?” he retorts with a tilt of his head, his voice suddenly taking on a sharper quality. A dangerous edge to it like he’s responding to a challenge—provoked by the suggestion that he could be merciful.
He could tear you to shreds right here and now and you’d let him–couldn’t stop him. He wants to. You can see it in his eager gaze. While this incites deep seated fear, it’s also a thrill. Something which awakens you after the nightmare that the last few weeks have been. Spending your days sleepwalking, rather than living. You realize it’s the first time you’ve felt alive since he took his final breath in your arms.
He must see it in your face—as perceptive as he was in life.
“Watch me,” he spits. Watch me tear you apart.
You swallow, throat dry.
He leans in and you almost bear your neck to him, seemingly ready for him to take you from this earthly plane.
Suddenly, his gaze snaps sharply down to his left. Your heart lurches in your chest, stomach flipping as your eyes flit over his shoulder to the left. Then to the right. Has he heard something? Possibly, a presence that could put an end to this? Oddly, the thought does little to relieve you. Instead, panic surges—a need to keep him here with you, if only it will result in your end–burning bright in your body.
The treeline remains empty and dark, save for the still hovering fog choking the trees.
If you were going to escape, this moment offers an opportune window. But that panic of losing his presence keeps you as rooted against his chest as these very trees are to the ground.
Of course, you don’t hear it. The disembodied voice only falls on his sharp ears when it hisses, “She serves a grander purpose.”
His sword, sheathed in its scabbard, speaks. He is ever bound to its command, whatever it calls for.
Your eyes return to his—finding with a shock that his gaze has already fallen upon you again—when he speaks.
“A greater purpose than a meal?”
His gaze rests upon you, but the question is evidently not for you—who it is for, you may never know.
Whatever one-sided conversation he was having must yield unfavourable results because his jaw ticks and nostrils flare. Frustration, maybe even anger, bubbles behind dark eyes.
He must obey.
But he’ll still have his fun.
Eddie decides right then and there that if he cannot satisfy his blood lust for you—if he cannot indulge in his thirst—then he will instead seek to satiate an alternatively carnal form of hunger.
Drinking your blood is not the only method of sowing terror. There are other means. He can get creative.
He leans in then, teeth bared, and you catch his canines growing sharper, protruding further from his gums when he whispers, “I'll give you a head start…run.”
When he says it it’s like the forest goes silent. Like all those tiny, near undetectable noises cease when he speaks. It’s eerie the way you don’t notice them until they’ve quieted.
At that moment, you tear through the woods, blowing past his memorial. Leaves crunch and twigs snap underfoot. You’re the opposite of stealth. Something this Eddie seems to be well-versed in. You’re clumsy in your terror, easy prey.
Having spouted falsities, he gives you no head start, immediately tracking you effortlessly through the fog.
You ignore the stitch quickly cutting into your side and keep running. But your sense of direction fails you quickly, everything beginning to look the same–all looming trees, dappled moonlight, and menacing shadows. All you can do is keep moving forward.
Then there’s movement to your left.
Is your mind playing tricks on you? Morphing the shadows of great oaks in your periphery to resemble the creature that’s hunting you? Or is he right there, just waiting for the ideal moment to strike? Letting the fear build in your gut before he pounces.
You just need to keep moving.
One moment it sounds like he’s hot on your tail, but when you chance a look, he isn’t there.
There’s the quick scratching against bark like an animal hurriedly climbing a tree, traversing it as effortlessly as a duck floats on water.
But you can’t look again, unwilling to tear your eyes away from the winding paths to see him scaling trees. Just the idea raises the hair on your arms.
The road. Only a sliver of it, gently illuminated by a dull street lamp, is visible through the dense wood. But it’s there. Just a hundred feet or so ahead–freedom and safety coming into view.
Despite your terror though, your all-out sprint fades into a jog. Hesitating in the densest part of the forest.
You lost Eddie once. This would be like losing him all over again, wouldn’t it?
You crave just one more glimpse of him because running from him after weeks of yearning to hold him in your arms again feels wrong. But you know your grief is clouding your judgement, and a voice of reason pops up, telling you to run, go!
When you realize what he’s done–lead you into the densest part of the woods on purpose–it’s too late.
Your moment’s hesitance costs you.
He led you here so you could hardly revel in the warm embrace of safety before coldly tearing it from your grasp.
Nearly nose-to-nose, Eddie seemingly materializes from the mist in front of you. “Boo!”
“Shit!” You jump, falling hard onto the dirt floor of the forest. You groan–heart hammering and tailbone aching, just laying there, willing your heart to calm.
Then he’s gone. There, in terror-induced vibrant clarity. And then a vanishment so swift you can’t be sure he was ever really there to begin with.
Laughing darkly from somewhere above–a sinisterly, amused sound–you venture a hesitant look upward, into the dense branches above.
Eddie is in the tree. There, he crouches on a thick branch as he observes you with the tilt of his head. His curious smile seemingly glowing in the darkness with the top half of his face shrouded in shadow.
And then once again, he manifests by your head.
He’s more menacing like this. Always was taller than you. But from this vantage point he’s a leering predator appraising injured prey. An easy meal. He could make quick work of you.
“That stupid, huh?” he laughs as if the prospect is the most amusing thing in the world. “Thought you’d get away easy?”
He continues to taunt you as he stalks around you, now standing at your waist.
You try to raise up onto your elbows, but to no avail as searing pain shoots up your spine.
“Hm?”
It should be the last thing to spring to mind right now. But his tone strikingly resembles the condescending one Eddie would use in bed. When he’d ask: That feel good? Hm? And he knew it did.
It forces you to look at him—like Pavlov’s dog drooling at the sound of the bell. A conditioned response.
Eddie’s practically glowing in the soft moonlight.
He’s so…alive.
It chokes you up a bit. A lump forming in your throat as unshed tears sting your eyes. You tear your gaze from him, guilt sinking into your belly like an anchor in the ocean.
“Look at me,” he demands immediately, voice proud and controlled. Despite the guilt, you cannot reject your body’s reaction to him. It’s that tone. It sends shivers up your spine and warmth into your gut—a pleasant ache for something raw and intense.
You obey.
Maybe it’s the grief. The sudden loss of someone so dear. But as you lay here—bruised and tired, and gazing up at him—you don’t mind that he has no memory of you. He’s still right here, standing in front of you, isn’t he? You think you’re still trying to convince yourself.
You are a tangled, contradiction of feeling. Fear continues to nip at your neck while intrigue licks at your spine as you observe this freakishly orphic creature observing you. He’s…enchanting, captivating.
Eddie sighs deeply, gazing up briefly at the moon peeking through the leaves. It hangs bright above you, branches extended toward it, as though worshipping it.
The sound he makes is like savouring relief. Upon feeling the open air on his skin, thankful for the reprieve from the shadows that the moonlight brings. Though you can’t know this—that he is confined to the darkness for all eternity.
You’re finally able to push yourself up on your elbows–not without wincing–when he returns his gaze to you. Your breathing slows and deepens as another pleasant and warm feeling twists in your belly.
“What am I going to do with you?” he ponders sardonically, excitedly.
You find the answer comes out of your mouth without thought. Another involuntary response from your body.
“Anything.” It sounds so needy. Feathery, as your response floats off into the trees.
Were you crazy or desperate? Or maybe just so haunted by his ghost that what he is–what he’s turned into–is irrelevant? Whether he be an apparition of your own imagining or a real monster twisted by the mirror world. Maybe he doesn’t have Eddie’s soul. But he has his face. His body. Is it so wrong to want him?
When he leans over you, you whimper, “Please.”
He pouts at you in faux sympathy.
Is the mercy you seek defined by his departure? Or does your version of “mercy” mean letting him devour you like he’d promised?
When he flashes those pointed canines and a mischievous dimple carves into his cheek you have your answer. You no longer need to question or analyze your thoughts. You just want to feel.
As Eddie leans in and strokes your cheek with the back of his index finger, you press gently into his touch. Feeling warm all over, buzzing with electricity.
Strangely, you feel safe under his scrutinizing gaze. A crease forms between your brows as he leans in even closer. Your parted lips brush his tenderly. You might catch fire.
Just as your eyes fall shut in anticipation of his kiss—your first with him in weeks—you hear his humorous scoff. Your face heats as your eyes open to find him leaning back.
“Pathetic,” Eddie whispers.
“I-” you’re not sure what you’re going to say in your defence, but he cuts you off anyway, with a curt:
“Lie down.”
His hand is a firm pressure against the center of your chest, pushing you toward the ground after stooping down next to you. Your back presses into the cool dirt floor of the forest.
Will he devour you now? Take you without another word?
No. He isn’t done teasing you yet–another similarity between the human Eddie and the creature Eddie. Always itching to get you writhing and whining beneath him. Never satisfied until he could make you beg for it.
The hand that pushed you to the ground remains on your body, cold as it drags slowly down in quiet curiosity. As if feeling you for the first time, just getting used to the way your body curves and trembles beneath his touch.
Calloused fingertips just barely brush your tits on his way down, raising goosebumps beneath your top. When you gasp and arch into his hand imperceptibly, he pauses just as the rough skin of his palm ghosts over a sliver of your exposed belly, above your navel.
His eyes flit to your chest, only remaining there for a single inhale before returning to his hand which continues to skate painstakingly down your body. Studying you.
The path of his hand ends at the edge of your skirt, caressing the skin there with a tender touch. You have to bite the inside of your lip to keep from making an embarrassing noise. Not wanting to seem too desperate. Although you’ve probably already failed at that.
“Eddie,” you sigh, head lolling over to look up at him. He meets your gaze, hand curving over your hip.
Humming thoughtfully, Eddie tilts his head at you. Like you’re the one who’s become a creature. Morphing into a small thing, bursting with need and a deep desire to be taken care of.
All the while, his hand continues its path down until he meets the skin of your thigh where he squeezes the doughy flesh roughly. Like he can feel the thrumming of your veins beneath your skin, yearning to take a bite out of you.
“Oh, God.” Your skin tingles delightfully. A soft moan, as quiet as the sound of skin brushing against skin escapes your throat.
The barest hint of a satisfied smile cracks his features.
You may be so haunted by him that you’ll entertain this potential dream or nightmare, or whatever this is. But you are also undeniably desperate. To feel his touch on your skin again is transcendent. Like the very first time he touched you, it feels as though every single one of your nerves is exposed. Readily available for him to toy with.
Excitement courses through your veins, a drug only able to be injected by his hand, as it curves over your leg. Hand pressing into the flesh of your inner thigh, he squeezes again, his blunt nails scratching sensitive skin. He pushes them open, giving him the easiest access to slide his hand up your skirt.
When he finally tugs your panties down, and finds the soaked mess between your thighs, he releases a breathy, “Oh.”
Stroking his fingers through the mess, he says, “Look at this…”
Your hips flex when he dips gently into your dripping hole, collecting the sticky stuff before pulling his hand from you to put your desire on display.
When his now sodden fingers come into view, and he pulls them apart to show you just how wet you are, you whine high in your throat. Embarrassed that you’re this worked up when he’s hardly done anything to elicit your lust.
Thin lines connect his fingers, your essence seemingly sparkling in the moonlight as gentle waves of humiliation crash over you. Watching on as he savours the taste of you on his fingers, you huff impatiently.
The moment his hand returns to your heat, his fingers swipe through your wetness again, dragging it to your sensitive clit where he rubs his middle finger in a dizzying circular motion, the slide smooth. Upon the second circuit of his fingers, you’re gushing around him, getting wetter by the second. A fire blazes in your belly and your hips twitch, finding it difficult to remain still when he’s working you up so.
“Fuck, look at you. Could probably make you cum from just this,” he laughs, applying more pressure as he continues his torturous circles over that magic little button.
The lewd sounds from your pussy fill the still night air as the lustful haze in his eyes grows more determined–his teeth sinking into his bottom lip in concentration.
It’s all too much and on pure instinct your own hand wraps around the wrist of the hand up your skirt. That you’re still fully clothed—sans underwear—makes this feel all the more dirty. Let alone that you’re in the woods on the filthy ground, the exposed sliver of your back likely coated in a thin layer of dirt.
Though your grip is loose on his wrist, he doesn’t let you get away with it. Grabbing both of your wrists in his free hand, he pins them above your head.
“Stay,” he orders.
You watch helplessly as he presses his two middle fingers into your pussy, curving them on the first stroke. If this were months ago, and Eddie had you like this in his bed, you might think the squeeze he gives your wrists—bound by his own hand–was an act of reassurance. Now, you know it is solely an act of dominance. I have you at my mercy.
“Fuck,” you whimper. “Eddie…”
You forgot how nicely his fingers filled you. How you feel like a bright, burning star when he touches you like this. Deep and slow, like he’s forcing you to savour each stroke. How the tips of his fingers, longer than yours, caress parts of you that you couldn’t fathom. How he works in earnest to pull noises from you that you didn’t even know you could make.
The pace he sets is simultaneously torturous and delicious, his aim clearly being to tease and overwhelm. Tears burn behind your eyes as his thumb rolls over your clit and you whine, that familiar feeling slowly beginning to build in your belly. Like you’re on the incline of a rollercoaster.
“That feel good? Hm?” he asks with a syrupy tone as he watches you fuck yourself on his fingers like you’re in heat. With your hands pinned, it’s all you can do to writhe in his grasp.
“I-yes!”
You’ve never seen him more smug and satisfied.
“Yeah?” you nod furiously, mouth occupied by wanton moans. “I know, I know, baby…Know you’re dying to take my cock.”
A delicious heat twists in your belly. “Please!”
Before you reach the peak of your rollercoaster, he pulls his fingers from you, releasing your wrists simultaneously–though they remain above your head. You whine in protest, feeling suddenly cold and empty without a part of him inside of you. Though this feeling does not last for long as he moves quickly.
Eagerly, Eddie swiftly removes his scabbard and undoes his jeans and fly, shoving them down just enough to free his cock. It bobs, hard and leaking so much pretty precum your mouth waters for it. Beautiful as ever.
The sigh he releases when he strokes his dick is euphoric as he smears your wetness from base to tip. Already soaked with you. You shift your hips, fidgeting in place, impatient. Wishing it was your warm mouth encircling his girth instead of his own hand.
Just as quickly as he’d tugged his jeans down, he’s on top of you again, slotting himself between your thighs before flipping your skirt up. Getting his first proper look at you.
“Fuck, look at the mess you’ve made, sweetheart. All for me?” He says it like he’s mesmerized by the sight, eating up the way your body unabashedly calls for him.
Grasping himself at the base, he lines himself up, your breathing growing shallow and quick. Anticipating the feeling of him inside you, desperate to feel every ridge and vein. The warmth as he fills you.
You hold your breath.
Meanly, he paints the flushed red tip up and down your soaked folds, causing you to whine and writhe against him. When it glances your clit you gasp and your hips jump as white hot pleasure zips up your spine.
Your eyes are on high branches now, but you hear his low, satisfied chuckle. He wants for you to experience a unique kind of anguish before he rewards you for your perseverance.
You’re about to lose it completely when he smacks the head of his cock heavily against your clit. The sticky sound it elicits is vulgar. It forces your eyes to roll into the back of your skull and groan.
He is not merciful. But, eventually, he puts you out of your misery. A sharp inhale marks the moment he finally slides the first inch of his cock inside of you.
Bracing for the inevitable fullness and slight sting that comes along with it proves unnecessary as he does not nudge himself any further. It only takes you a moment to realize he’s still teasing and you release another low whine. Just his weeping tip penetrates your fluttering hole, making your head spin.
He is going to make you earn it.
“Jesus, it’s like she’s suckin’ me in,” he mutters under his breath in disbelief. “Beg for it, sweetheart.”
You don’t waste any time. Not a single second before you begin to plead with him, cutting him off before he gets the pet name out.
“Fuck me, Eddie! Need it so bad. So, so bad,” you mewl pathetically. “Please, please, please, please-” you might be embarrassed if you weren’t an absolute wreck, distraught on account of his teasing. Right on the edge of intense pleasure, feeling like you can’t take it anymore and might-
His cock sinks into you fully, not slowly but roughly. His heavy balls slap against your ass as he tugs your legs up to sheath himself even deeper inside of you.
Twin groans float into the air, his eyes locked on yours. His become impossibly dark, like the slow spill of black ink across a page. Pleasure explodes in your belly as stars seemingly explode in the night sky. You are a live wire casting sparks in every direction.
He is all that matters right now. The world could be ending around you, and you would be ignorant to it, lost in the feeling of his cock sliding home inside of you.
His large palms pin your thighs back, as close to your chest as they can stretch while he stretches you out on his cock. And, fuck, is it a stretch after all these weeks.
Your pleasure errs on the side of pain, but you savour it nonetheless and let him devour you. The sensations commingle and soon, you cannot tell the difference between the two. The pleasure is pain and the pain is pleasure.
On a particularly rough thrust, as his balls collide with your ass with a sharp smack, you cry out, moaning his name freely into the open air. The sound gets trapped in the thick trees, as do his groans.
For the first time since he pinned your hands to the ground, you wrap them around his neck, exploring his back, heavily textured by scars. Feeling the way his muscles flex beneath your hands as he continues to pound into you. Slowly, they find their way up into his hair, feeling his waves between your fingers. Somehow soft and knotted at the same time.
But he doesn’t let your hands roam free for too long before pinning them back above your head again, one palm still pressing firmly into the back of your right thigh. When you try to wrap your legs around his waist, he simply presses them back toward your chest, his throbbing cock reaching deeper inside of you as the obscene squelching sounds amplify.
Your own sounds rival the distant symphony of insects–somewhere far off in the meadow, the chirping crickets and singing cicadas are drowned out by your moans. The tiny creatures may as well be silent with how loud your wails have become. But how could you be quiet when you can feel him in your belly?
“Take it,” he growls, as if you are not laying here fucking yourself back onto his throbbing dick. Meeting his deep thrusts with your own, feeling his tip kiss your cervix and whining. “Tell me how good my cock feels inside of you.”
All you can do is whine and gaze up at him, barely registering his words as your heart unexpectedly swells at the sight of his gorgeous, pleasure-stricken features.
Every minute detail is identical to your Eddie. Every freckle–including the tiny one just below his eye. His cheeky dimples. The sparse trail of hair below his navel that you used to trail your tongue down, causing his hips to jump in response.
Predictably, you get lost in his beauty and the overwhelming sensations, barely recognizing when his hand abandons the task of binding your wrists. Abruptly, you are snapped back to the moment when that same hand lands a sharp slap to your clit. It only causes you to squeal, your pussy fluttering around his dick as the sting quickly merges into pleasure. You get more lost in the haze of dizzying pleasure-pain.
Realizing that he only succeeded in further blurring your thoughts, Eddie grasps your face in one large hand. He squishes your cheeks until your lips pucker, smearing your wetness across your face. “Tell me.”
Dizzying pleasure continues to cloud your mind, making it difficult to recall what he’s asking of you, let alone produce a response.
You must take too long to answer as he squishes harder, your teeth pressing harshly against the inside of your cheeks. The feeling borders on pain, causing you to whimper again as heat sinks into your belly.
With a jolt, you remember what his question was.“Tell. Me.”
He needs to know.
“It’s g-” you choke when he thrusts deep, kissing that sweet spot deep inside.
With the hand still gripping your cheeks, he shakes your head a little, like he’s trying to shake the thought free. “Huh?”
“Good!” you squeal. “L-love your cock!”
“You ‘L-love’ it?” Eddie laughs dryly, clearly enjoying the praise and the way you struggle to give it to him.
That sweet humiliation warms your chest, feeling almost as good as the way he presses inside of you. Hot and heavy.
You agree with a moan, lacking the wherewithal to respond coherently. When he removes his hand from your face, it travels to grope your tits greedily over your thin top. Arching into his touch, you close your eyes and revel in the sweet sensation.
His groans and the filthy sound of skin slapping against skin fill your ears as he repeatedly strokes that wonderful spot inside of you. Pleasure bursts in vivid colour behind your eyelids.
When his hand travels further down your body, middle and marriage fingers pressing into that tender bundle of nerves at the top of your cunt, your pleasure surges to new heights. The coil which has been tightening slowly while he fucks you threatens to snap.
Pace slowing in favour of deep, calculated thrusts, Eddie leans down to your ear. “Gonna make such a mess of you,” he whispers, sending shivers straight down your spine. The promise is like molten lava on your skin.
More reckless moans spill from your lips as he nips at your earlobe, then drags his teeth slowly down your neck. A reminder that he could easily sink his teeth into your flesh. It sends a thrill through your body–not unlike the one that licked at your spine as he hunted you through the woods.
“Promise?” you ask breathlessly. A fucked-out smile on your face.
He stares hungrily, longingly, at your neck for just a moment before returning to your eyes after registering your words. A challenge that quirks his brow.
Bracing himself with an elbow dug in the dirt, his pace quickens again as he works furiously at your clit. His rhythm is clumsy, but successful at continuing to send shockwaves of twisted pleasure through your body. His hips slam so hard against you that it would be unsurprising to find light green bruises pressed into your ass tomorrow morning.
You gasp, tossing your head back on a particularly deep and perfectly angled thrust. He dangles you over the cliff’s edge, keeping you on the precipice of release. It’s all you can do to tighten your hands into fists as you twist your them in his unrelenting grasp.
He doesn’t even have to ask you to beg this time. The pleas for release simply tumble out of your mouth with little thought. “Please! Gonna cum, Eddie! Please, please can I cum?”
Hot, overwhelmed tears threaten to spill over in anticipation of his permission. You doubt you’ll be able to hold on much longer with that perfect pressure on your clit and incredible fullness. His heavy panting indicates he isn’t far behind you.
“Cum all over my cock…Let me ruin you for anyone else.” He’s breathless as he says it.
It’s his words that inevitably shove you over the edge, pleasure swelling inside of you. Your clit numbs and you cry out, cunt clenching around him as you drench his cock. It is not a soft, gentle climax that graces your body, but an intense thing that seems to carry on forever.
“I love you,” you whisper into the cool night air, your body still twitching with your orgasm as tears slip down your cheeks. The phrase so easily blurts from you and it’s then that he groans and begins to spill inside of you too. Face pressed into your neck as he shoots hot spurts of cum into your cunt. Rope after rope of the stuff, warming your belly fulfillingly.
His thrusts slow and eventually stop as he collapses on top of you.
Aftershocks flow through you in raw, euphoric waves as you pant into his curls. A sated smile tugs at your mouth and you tremble against him, boneless when he’s done with you. A blissful giggle escapes your throat.
The both of you lay there for moments, just listening to each other’s heartbeats slow as the insect’s song replaces your moans. The moon gleams in the sky, spinning stars winking at you.
All too soon Eddie pulls away from your neck and observes the damage. You’re sure he finds he succeeded in making a mess of you. Your wetness still smeared across your cheek, hair completely mussed, and your bottom half covered in dirt as you draw in heaving breaths, still coming down from your mind-numbing orgasm.
There’s a small smirk that reaches his eyes more than his mouth before he tugs his hand from between your bodies. Lewdly, he shoves his two middle fingers between your lips. “Hmph!”
Once the surprise wears off and you cup his hand in both of yours, you allow your eyes to drift shut. The mild taste of your own cum pervades your mouth as he presses his fingers deeper. Your tongue swirls around them, sucking softly. He continues to test the waters, pressing in further until the pads of his fingers grace the back of your tongue, causing you to gag lightly around them. When he pulls them out, they’re wetter than before. He smears the spit over your cheeks, just as he had done with your wetness. An act of dominance which leaves you breathless and twists your stomach into knots.
As you open your eyes, you watch him push himself away from you, sitting back on his haunches.
“Clean up your mess.” The meaning of his statement only briefly eludes you.
With wobbly limbs you stumble a step or two on your knees closer to him, intoxicated by your co-mingling scents before his palm finds the crown of your head and he presses you down against him.
You gaze lovingly up at him and you’re sure the sight from above is simply obscene.
It’s been too long since you’ve done this which makes it all the more satisfying when your lips wrap around his slowly softening cock. The gentle weight of him in your mouth, the best feeling in the world. Warm and heavy on your tongue as the salty taste of his cum graces your tastebuds and the musky scent of him reaches your nose.
He inhales sharply on the first suck, then groans as he pushes your head down more. The scent of him here–with your nose nearly nestled against the dark curls above his dick–is dizzying. You try not to gag around him this time before he lets up a bit and allows you to move more freely, greedily licking up your combined juices as his warm cum slowly drips down your thighs.
Eddie allows you to slurp happily up and down his cock for a few more moments before he decides you’ve cleaned him up sufficiently. When he pulls you off, wetness drips down your chin. He thumbs at the spit there and you watch as he licks it off his own thumb, like he’s savouring chocolate ice cream that dripped off the cone.
Then, he pets the top of your head gently in appreciation. “Good girl.”
Your heart simply glows in your ribcage. This blooming feeling is quickly stamped out and replaced with rising panic when he goes to leave. Your heart reaches out for him and comes up empty, as it had when the life had drained from his eyes. It is not the panic from before which left you frightful at the prospect of being caught between claws and sharp teeth. But a panic which urges you to capture him, to keep him in your grasp, even if just for a little while longer.
When you catch his wrist, he spins around and bares his teeth like an abused animal anticipating harm and hurt–one who has never experienced a soft touch. What’s happened to him? What has he gone through these past few weeks while you’ve been grieving him, unable to eat or sleep or think at all?
Now that you’ve had him, back again in your arms with a beating heart and warm skin, you couldn’t bear to part with him again.
This panic, the terror of being clouded with grief again, is what drives you to stutter out, “W-will I see you again?”
Guarded features soften a touch as he stares into your face, trying to determine your motivations. To decipher that hopeful look in your eyes.
When he leans down to caress your chin softly, you know he’s come to a conclusion. You look imploringly from his left to his right eye, awaiting his response as your heart hammers in your chest.
"On the next night that the fog creeps over the hills...maybe I'll sneak into your bedroom...and devour you."
You sigh as he gently licks your top lip, close enough now that you could kiss him easily.
Gently, he grabs your face, his thumb resting on one cheek and his other four fingers on the other. Just before he kisses you you ask him softly, lips brushing, “Promise?”
It’s then he presses his lips to yours, and it’s almost tender before he drags his teeth over your bottom one. A final kiss is pressed to your mouth, soothing the gentle sting that you savour.
For the briefest of moments you linger in the feeling after he’s pulled away.
And when you open your eyes, he’s disappeared into the fog. Evaporated into the mist. And it’s like he whispers back to you, Promise.
⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆
You wait for him.
All the while, thinking only of him and nothing else. It’s like your grief has intensified—worse the second time around—and after a while you begin to wonder whether you imagined the whole thing. It isn’t much of a stretch to say so.
After he died, you often took to lying in bed for all hours of the day, staring out the window and watching the shadows grow long before drifting off into a fitful slumber. Tortured by your grief, even in sleep.
Could it have all been a dream?
As the days and weeks stretch on and you begin to question your grasp on reality—you return to this schedule. Lying in bed. Watching the world move as you remain still. Nightmares. Repeat.
You always dreamt of him. Nothing else. Watching the light drain from his eyes. The blood pool around his body.
He rots until he becomes pearly white bones. And the skeleton comes to life, badgers you with questions. He would ask you, Why didn’t you save me? Why aren’t you dead instead? This is all your fault! I’ll never forgive you!
Your encounter in the woods must have never occurred. It was just another fucked up way for you to torture yourself over his death.
Some nights you never slept, trying to keep the nightmares at bay. And, despite yourself, watched desperately for the fog to roll in.
It’s weeks before the fog returns to Hawkins.
When it does, and you hear the slow and steady creak of your window being opened as you lie in bed, you know it was all real.
And Eddie kept his promise.
Thank you so much for reading!! Please reblog and let me know what you thought!
I agree entirely with that anon. Stop creating problems when there are none. Learn to think for yourself instead of following masses. You will be better off.
following masses when I’ve seen maybe 5 other people bring up the same exact concerns I have voiced surrounding that scene. Lol…okay.
Assuming that I’m incapable of thinking for myself is crazy fucking work 😭😭😭
You’re not insane but it’s really not that deep. I think that people who apply such ultra woke and borderline puritanical leftist ideas to media are totally missing the point. Joel does on the game and no it wasn’t more disturbing in the show, the point of the scene isn’t trauma porn or to have a white girl kill a Latino man - it’s part of the entire story about the cycle of violence. Joel brutally murdered people, Abby brutally murders him. None of it is right. You’re missing the actual point of the story by creating issues where there are none.
Baby, what the fuck are you even saying in the first start of your paragraph 💀 are we deadass rn?
jfc let me just have my fucking opinion in peace. Idgaf that you don’t agree with me so what is the point of beating the dead horse. You’re not gonna suddenly change my mind and I’m not going to change yours (clearly) so just give it a rest??
Can i ask what you think they should have done instead?
not brutally torture and beat a latino man to death for views and trauma porn. Yeah, I knew it was coming. I never played the game, but I knew what happened. I’m not naive. I knew they were going to kill Joel, but the way it was done was even more disturbing than it was in the game. Plus having Abby say to his face “you’re handsome so at least you have that going for you” was completely unnecessary and gross.
