mikie.moo

|they/them| fan of many i write and read lots of fanfics

[xxmooxmooxx]

mikie.moo//xxmooxmooxx

「 ✦ mikie ✦ 」

they/them ⭒  pansexual ⭒ 24 ⭒ fan of many ⭒ writer ⭒ director  

⭒socials: 

⭒insta: mikie.xmoox

⭒snap: milkiewayx

⭒tiktok: milkieway.official

⭒twt: sisiholloway

⭒discord: milkie.way.x

⭒me!

⭒my face⭒

⭒my room⭒

⭒masterlist of my fics

❀ fluff ꩜ angsty ♱ smutty (18+ mdni)

⭒eddie munson

my favorite freak ❀꩜

⭒spencer reid

irritable ♱

⭒spencer agnew

scared with you ❀

[xxmooxmooxx]

my short film Sins Of Omission is out!!!

Sins Of Omission is a film about queerness, religious trauma, homophobia, internalized homophobia, rejection, self acceptance, friendship, and community.

you’ll laugh, cry, and find yourself thinking of the first peoples that made you feel safe enough to be yourself.

i don't wanna get emotional so to put it simply... thank you everyone for everything

[xxmooxmooxx]

so i’ve started getting into some witchcraft recently and it’s inspired me.

spencer reid x witch reader?

eddie munson x witch reader?

those are my big two but any other ideas if i like em i’ll see what i can do🖤

[trampleddoves]

i wouldn't fall for someone i thought couldn't misbehave

Spencer Reid intercepts one of your kills, leading to a late-night surprise visit in his apartment.

Pairing: afab!unsub!reader x unsub!Spencer  Contents: smut, 2.6k words, DDDNE, brief blood play, they threaten each other with a gun, post prison unsub!Spencer, unsub!reader, brief mentions of violence, fingering, hand job, unprotected penetrative sex.   Notes: Combined this request with this, although I took some liberties. This is not part of the Marionette, Unbound series, but it is post prison Spencer–turned unsub. The plot is mostly vibes, please don’t look too deeply into it.

He meets you officially, for the first time, in a museum. Of course it’s a museum, like some fucked up cliche. Life has been known to play games with him. Attending an exhibit on Renaissance anatomical sketches—the artistry of dissection—where he senses your presence like it’s in his blood, instinct sharpened by years of both survival and training. 

Four feet to his left, there you are, studying a rendering of a heart. He inches closer, casual and aloof, wondering if his eventual proximity will get a reaction. 

You remain calm. A beat passes. Two, and then,

“You’re standing too close.”

Spencer tilts his head, but refuses to turn and look. “The average personal space boundary in North America between two adults having a conversation is approximately eighteen inches. I’m at twenty-seven.”

“Maybe between friends.” From his periphery, your lips lift into a ghost of a smile. “We’re strangers.”

“Are we?” He holds out a wooden chess piece–a pawn, common and nondescript, if it isn’t for the four tipped star engraved at the bottom. You’d left it in the hands of the last victim. Gloating. A signal, telling him I was here first, you’re too slow. He has two others hidden in a hollow book, from the two other times you’d been faster than him. 

Spencer knows what trophies mean, has spent years learning and studying the type of individual sick enough to collect them. Told himself once he started taking matters into his own hands that he'd never imitate that. Wouldn't keep mementos and collect them, foolishly believing it would set him apart from the rest.

Somehow, when it comes to your tokens, he tells himself they don't count.

You turn then, finally, eyes exaggerated and wide to convey innocence, but he sees the sharpness twinkling just beneath the surface. 

He waits for you to deny. To call him crazy. Threaten to call security. He hopes, for a singular moment, to see a flicker of panic, any hint of fear. Anger at being bested—he did find you, after all, no matter how embarrassing the resources he'd had to use.

Instead, you smile. "I see you got my gift."

“You’re escalating,” he says simply. "Oh? And what makes you say that?"

"The overkill from the last victim."

"I'm offended you're calling that an escalation, I did that for you." you bat your lashes at him, sweet as honey. "Mister…?"

"Spencer Reid." he reliquishes his name without hesitation. After all, he knows nearly everything about you at this point. It only seems fair.

"Spencer Reid." you repeat, lips curling as you introduce yourself.

"I know."

"So you've looked into me."

"As I'm sure you've done with me."

You laugh, light and airy. To onlookers, the two of you must seem like you're flirting. Maybe you are. He certainly gets a reaction from that laugh, like something pulling in his stomach.

"But I didn't get as far as your name." you say finally, smirking at him.

They stand there, two ghosts in a building dedicated to preserved bodies.

“You’re going to get caught,” Spencer murmurs, slipping the pawn back in his pocket.

"Why? Are you turning me in?"

He shakes his head. "You're growing reckless. People are onto you."

"There's an easy fix to that—I'll pin it on you."

Something in him flashes, quick as a whip, memories of prison. Of Cat Adams. His posture straightens, carefully neutral and forcefully serene, but you catch it. The shift, the discomfort. You've hit a nerve.

"Ah," you smirk, "Touchy subject?"

He doesn't answer, lets you mull over and make whatever conclusions you wished. Despite the years, the framed murder still makes his jaw tick.

You step back, clearly pleased. "I won't get caught, Spencer Reid. If you aren't fast enough to keep up with me, then I doubt they will." You brush past his shoulder as you walk away, smelling of camellias and, if you lingered too close, the underlying rust of blood.

—

Six months. Two more kills, both of whom you got to before he does. Spencer isn't that miffed anymore, finds himself chuckling when he finds the crime scene and rummages for the chess piece he knows is waiting for him.

He can't quite decide if this twisting of your paths is fate, or coincedence, or something you'd orchestrated without his knowledge. At some point, his work must have reached you—he had been targetting the same type of men you had. Rich, lonely men who abuse their money and influence, but irrelevant enough to avoid suspicion.

Spencer still remembers the first time he'd found his target already dead. You'd used poison then. Left the chess piece for him. That pawn is the only confirmation of your presence—you never use the same method twice. You're smart, effective, but you're growing bold. Showing off. Bleeding out victims, leaving more mementos that investigators could potentially trace back to you.

Thus, his planning shifts from getting to the targets before you out of the spirit of competition, to getting there to make sure he kills them first and somehow cease your streak.

So far, he's been unsuccessful.

Until today. He's let the last two victims go, a necessary sacrifice to his ego, in order to study your habits.

You blend in. That's your advantage. Beautiful in that nondescript way, adjusting your appearance to fit the setting, that's how you're able to slip in and out of situations.

His advantage is this: he's trained to catch people like you. By tracking your patterns, he comes to the conclusion that you'll be at a gala that Trevor Parker is attending. He doesn't know what your disguise will be, only that he wants to get to this target before you.

So he attends. Dons a pressed shirt and tie, mingles with the crowd, disappearing under the revered title of Doctor Spencer Reid abd pretending everything is all right.

He tries to scope the crowd for you, to no avail. Once the night slows, and Trevor Parker leaves, Spencer tails him discreetly, wondering when you'll show up.

You don't.

Or, you do. But only when he's in the comfort of his own home, stumbling his way to the bathroom. Trevor Parker had been surprisingly stubborn, forcing Spencer closer. He'd planned a quick slit to the throat, but Trevor Parker's life ended with multiple stab wounds, bleeding on his bedroom floor.

"You're hurt."

Spencer jumps, gun immediately drawn, cocked and ready. You laugh, perched on his window sill—is that how you got in?—dressed in the pressed black uniform that the servers from the gala had been wearing. So that's why he couldn't find you within the guests.

"I'm not." he says, gun still held up, "This is all his."

You raise your hands in defeat, head tilted to the side. "You sure?"

Spencer watches you take a step, and then another, keeping his gun in the air. You stop only when the barrel hits your chest, eyes softening in the dim room.

"Let me see."

"I told you, I'm not hurt." Spencer says, eyes dragging over your form. He debates for a moment, before finally lowering his weapon. "You were there. You didn't kill him, but you were there. You would've."

"I would've." you admit, taking another step forward now that his defence has lowered. The smell of camellias and blood fill his apartment, heady, slick and addictive.

"But?"

"But I wanted to see what you'd do instead." you grin, sharp with condescension. "You made a mess, doctor. Next time, maybe leave the dirty work to me."

He huffs, embarrassment blooming in his chest from being chastised and something more primal clawing up his gut from your proximity.

"I wasn't expecting him to be so strong even while drunk." Spencer admits.

"Your first mistake was taking him face to face and waiting until he's home."

"How would you have done it?" "Poison. Administered during the gala, so everyone is a suspect."

Spencer shakes his head. "That would've made a spectacle. I was right to intercept."

"Intercept me?" your eyes flash in the dark. A low, mocking laugh spills from your lips. "Oh, Spencer Reid, do you think yourself my savior? Look at you."

"He's dead, and I left no trace. You would've done something stupid, like leave another pawn on the crime scene."

"Mhm, and imagine what they'd think when the investigators find your suspicious collection of pawns engraved with a four tipped star."

At that, Spencer backs away again. Gun drawn, leveled at your chest.

You laugh. "Relax, that was hypothetical. And it's not nice to point a gun at an unarmed lady."

"What do you want? Why are you here? To gloat and tell me you'd do a better job?" he says, voice dangerously calm, "You already did that."

Your smile melts, turns syrupy. "I did. Why do you have a gun pointed at me? I told you I'm unarmed."

"Forgive me, but I don't trust that." "Oh, then allow me to prove it."

Before he can blink, you're already unbuttoning your blouse, revealing bare skin, the lace of your bra. The shirt falls to the floor, and you make a show of turning around. "See? No hidden guns. Or do you want me to strip naked just to be—"

He silences you with a kiss, blood stirring hot and insistent in his veins. You laugh into his mouth, arms wrapping tight around his neck and tugging him to the floor. He follows, hisses when you bite at his lower lip so hard the metallic taste laves over his tongue.

You giggle, lapping up the trickling blood eagerly, hands traveling down to unbutton his pants.

Spencer groans, cock stirring from the high of the kill, your pliant body beneath his, squirming and arching into his with a softness he hasn't felt in a while. A softness he didn't think possible, not from you. Your cold hands shoving past his boxers to squeeze and stroke over his cock.

He feels another nip, lip you're trying to get more blood from his lips, and he pulls back, large hands framing your face. He gets a good look at you then, the feral grin stretching your lips, his blood smeared over them. The soft pad of his thumb presses into the plush.

Your mouth parts, sucking the digit between them. A hum vibrates around his thumb as your tongue swirls over each crevice.

His spine tingles when he realizes you're licking Trevor Parker's dried blood off. Everything is forgotten with that realization, only heat and desire and you, right there, on his floor.

"Fuck," Spencer hisses. His thumb slips out, now clean, and he replaces them with his index and middle finger, watching you suck them clean with undivided intensity. Your hand on his cock moves faster, trying to find a sloppy rhythm to sync with how his hips are rutting forward.

He groans, his body shuddering into yours, pressing you into the carpet. One arm braced by your head, the other slides his fingers out of your lips to undo your pants, tugging them down just enough to slip his fingers, still slick and slippery with your saliva, into the throbbing heat of your cunt. Soft, warm walls accept those digits, clench around them when he curls up.

Spencer pumps those fingers in and out of your cunt, making sure to hit that spongy part that has you baring your neck to him. He bends to kiss at that stretch of skin, licking and biting, wondering if he's got it in him to break your skin the way you did his.

"Oh," you sigh, leaning back on one elbow. You continue stroking his cock with one hand, spreading slick precum all down the shaft. His legs shimmy clumsily to ease the rest of his pants off.

As if you've read his mind, you tug your own bottoms off, knees knocking accidentally into his side, until finally, you've freed yourself from the confines of your clothes and are able to wrap your legs around his waist. Moving as one now, Spencer slides his fingers out with a wet pop, smearing the slickness against your lips.

You laugh, and he swears the world tilts.

Another shift, hands arranging thighs, spreading you open, and then, finally, a push. Into your heat, stretching the entrance slowly. His cock glides in with ease once your body accepts the broad tip, bottoming out in one thrust.

Your elbow buckles. Land flat on the floor. He moves one hand to the back of your had, eases it up and cradles it like you're precious, just so you aren't lying straight on the hardwood floor.

"This what you wanted?" he groans, thrusting shallowly. "What you came for?"

"Mhm," you moan, dragging him down for another kiss. Your tongue laves over his bleeding lip insistently, shamelessly. He moves in earnest now. Sharp, quick thrusts of his hips, ones that make your nails dig into his scalp until he's hissing, until he's convinced you're still trying to draw blood.

He pulls almost all the way out and slams roughly in retaliation.

"Fuck!"

"That's it." he pants, repeating the action, watching your face twist, sweat slick and pretty in the darkness, as he pounds into your cunt. "Let me hear you."

You lean into it with glee, moaning and cursing into the dark room. His name, pleas to go harder, please, yes right there, over and over until he's fucking you hard and fast, your slick bodies inching slowly across the floor from the impact. You take all of it with glee, walls fluttering around his length, soft and perfect.

"I'm—ah—close, please, I'm so close!"

"Yeah?" he hikes your leg higher over his waist, before rubbing quick circles over your sensitive bud with his thumb. He feels it before you could even make a sound, the sudden tightness, the rush of wetness pulsing around his cock. Your face scrunches, pleasure thrumming all through your body and making you squirm. Beautiful.

Spencer gasps, eyes clenched tight as he fucks you through your orgasm and chases his own.

And then—

The click of a gun.

"Get off."

His eyes fly open, disoriented and dazed, meeting your blissed out gaze beneath him. At his temple, the cold press of the barrel. His gun, discarded carelessly when you both fell to the floor, now in your hands. His gun which he'd tried to use to physically keep you away, now aimed at his own head.

Spencer blinks. Pulls out of you carefully, panting, clearing his throat. Stands up, slow and steady, unsure about everything.

You grin, bright and sweet. Keep the gun trained at him while you tug your pants back on, not bothering with your panties. Your shirt is askew, only half buttoned.

"I came here to tell you to never steal my target again." you say, stepping backward, moving toward the window where he assumes you'd used to break in the first time. "Or I won't hesitate to pull this trigger."

Spencer watches you, half undressed, his cock still twitching and erect. He nods, once. "I won't interfere again."

You grin. Set his gun down on a nearby desk, before pushing his window open.

"Good. You do that." you duck and slip out through the small space. "Oh, and thanks for the orgasm. We should do that again sometime."

You're gone without another glance. Spencer stands there, covered in dried blood, his ears ringing. A million things run through his head. He needs better security. Take a shower. Burn these clothes.

But first, he wraps his fist around his weeping, needy cock and recalls the look on your face when you came apart.

part of my BLOODY VALENTINE MARATHON | Main masterlist.

[beasbrain]

perfect pair

description: calling all my alt baddies!! this one’s for you. you are THAAAAT girl: dark, magnetic, and somehow just slightly out of reach. eddie's been into you since high school; he just didn’t realize how down bad he was until you finally let him in. wink wink.

pairing: eddie x you (fem!reader)

tags: obsessed!eddie, alt/goth reader, big sister/maternal reader, tarot card readings, crystal bitch reader, down bad eddie, eddie's a MUNCH, orange cat x black cat energy, eddie is whipped, reader has him in a chokehold, he's staring constantly, teasing & banter as flirting, eddie's got some piercings...., mutual pining (she's quieter about it)

TW: NSFW (18+) minors do not interact!!!!!, PiV, unprotected, sick parent reference, mild alcohol use, eddie being down bad

WC: 8.6k

A/N: AHHHHH! okay, this request came in from my beloved @bitterestwillow and i am OBSESSED with how it came out!! i love alt/goth reader sososooso much. and munch eddie always gets me good. reblogs are always appreciated <3 i hope you all enjoy!!

Eddie's halfway through a rant about spell slots and unfair dice rolls when it happens. Not dramatically, not with thunder or some cinematic cue. Just the low, smooth rumble of an engine that doesn’t belong in the Hawkins High parking lot.

Eddie pauses mid-sentence.

He knows cars. Not in a polished, mechanic kind of way, but in a this-one-sounds-like-it-might-die-if-you-look-at-it-wrong way. His van fits that category perfectly. 

But this one doesn’t, this one purrs. His head turns before he even realizes he’s looking. And then he sees you.

You pull into the lot like you own it, like the cracked pavement and rusted bike racks were built for your arrival.

The car itself is enough to draw attention, a gleaming, black 1967 Chevy Impala that looks almost too clean for Hawkins. 

But Eddie doesn’t stay focused on the car for long, because you step out. And suddenly, the rest of the world just dulls.

Your hair hits first. Long, jet black, falling in uneven, deliberate layers, choppy like a wolf cut that’s grown out just enough to look effortless. Your bangs sit heavy across your forehead, slightly parted, like you cut them yourself and didn’t care if anyone approved.

Then the piercings. The glint of your eyebrow barbell catches the sunlight, subtle but sharp. The septum ring follows, something that would look out of place on anyone else in Hawkins, but somehow looks right on you.

Your arms are bare, and that’s where it really gets him.

Tattoos. Not one or two hidden pieces. No, you’ve got a collection. Ink crawling up your arms, across your shoulders, disappearing beneath the fabric of your top. Dark lines, bold shapes, some delicate, some heavy. None of them accidental.

And your body…Eddie actually forgets how to think for a second.

You’re built in a way that doesn’t apologize. Curves, confidence, presence. The kind of body that makes people look twice and then pretend they didn’t.

You slam the car door shut with a solid thunk, sunglasses pushed up into your hair, and lean casually against the hood like you’ve done this a hundred times, because you have. You’re not new to Hawkins. You’re known.

“—and if you multiclass too early, you’re basically screwing yourself for late game—”

“Munson?”

Eddie doesn’t answer.

“Munson.”

Gareth snaps his fingers in front of his face, and Eddie blinks hard, like someone just pulled him out of a dream.

“What?” he says, too quick, too distracted.

Gareth follows his line of sight. “…oh.”

A couple of the Hellfire guys turn. “Dude,” Jeff mutters.

“Right?” Gareth adds under his breath.

Eddie doesn’t respond, because now his brain is trying to catch up to recognition. You’re not just some girl, you’re that girl.

You sat two rows behind him in sophomore English. Wore all black even back then, doodled in your notebook instead of taking notes.

You never raised your hand, but when you did speak, it was sharp, precise. People didn’t mess with you, not because you were loud, but because you didn’t need to be.

You graduated. Disappeared into whatever came after Hawkins High. And somehow came back… like this.

“Holy shit,” Eddie breathes, almost to himself.

Because you’ve changed. Not in a way that makes you unrecognizable. but in a way that makes you feel finished.

Like you grew into exactly who you were always supposed to be. And he can’t stop staring.

The school doors swing open, and the final cluster of Hellfire members start spilling out, loud and animated.

Your brother is in the middle of them, mid-argument about something nerdy and passionate, hands moving as he talks.

You spot him instantly, and your entire posture softens just a fraction. Not enough for most people to notice, but Eddie does.

You straighten, push off the hood, and lift a hand in a small wave. Your brother lights up, breaks away from the group, jogging over like you’re the only thing that matters in that moment.

You ruffle his hair when he gets close, saying something Eddie can’t hear, but he catches the grin you give him. It’s different from the rest of your expression; warmer, private, protective.

Something in Eddie’s chest tightens unexpectedly. He’s still staring when your brother says something that makes you glance up. Right at him. Direct fucking eye contact.

It’s brief. Maybe a second, two at most. But it hits. There’s recognition there. A flicker of oh, I know you. Your head tilts slightly, like you’re placing him.

Eddie forgets how to stand like a normal person.

Then, you smirk. Not big, but just enough to let him know you remember.

And then you look away, like it didn’t matter nearly as much as it just did to him.

“Okay, yeah,” Gareth mutters beside him. “You’re gone. You’re not coming back from that.”

Eddie exhales slowly, still watching as you open the passenger door for your brother, leaning in to say something else. He laughs, loud and easy, before climbing in.

You circle back to the driver’s side, sliding in like you belong behind that wheel. The engine turns over again, smooth and low, and Eddie feels something strange settle under his ribs.

Not just attraction. Not just curiosity. Something more specific. Pure, undivided interest.

“Munson,” Jeff says, nudging him. “You know her, right?”

Eddie doesn’t look away as the Impala pulls out of the lot.

“…yeah,” he says slowly.

Then, quieter, almost to himself, “Not well enough.”

Your brother disappears into the comic shop like he’s been summoned.

The bell above the door jingles once, twice, and then he’s gone, already mid-conversation with someone inside about campaigns or comics or something equally important in his world.

You don’t follow, you never do. Not enough to make him feel crowded, but just enough to know he’s somewhere tucked close.

Lucky for you, Lady Laveous' shop is right next door. 

The metaphysical shop is quieter. Dimmer. It smells faintly of incense and something earthy, like old wood and dried herbs. Wind chimes shift lazily near the entrance, brushing together in soft, irregular notes as you step inside.

You fit here. Not in a try-hard way, not like someone playing dress-up. Like you belong to the space just as much as the shelves do.

Today's outfit is black-on-black, naturally. A fitted tank layered under a sheer, long-sleeve mesh top that clings to your arms, your tattoos visible beneath it like artwork behind glass.

Low-rise black jeans hug your hips, a studded belt slung carelessly through the loops. Rings on nearly every finger. Chunky boots that echo softly against the wooden floor.

Your hair falls straight down your back today, the choppy layers settling naturally, bangs framing your face just enough to give you that permanently unimpressed look.

You don’t look like you’re trying, which is exactly why it works. You move slowly through the shop, fingers brushing over shelves.

Crystals arranged in small clusters. Tarot decks are stacked neatly. Little handwritten labels explaining properties in looping script.

You pause at a tray of polished stones, picking one up between your fingers, turning it in the low light.

“You actually know what that does,” a voice says behind you, “or are you just vibing?”

You don’t turn right away. You recognize the voice first. Then, you glance over your shoulder.

Eddie stands a few feet behind you, hands shoved into the pockets of his leather jacket like he’s trying to look casual and failing just a little. His eyes flick from the crystal in your hand back to your face. He grins.

“You look like you know what you’re doing,” he adds, like that explains his presence here at all.

You raise a brow, turning fully now, the crystal still balanced between your fingers.

“I do,” you say simply. You tilt your head, studying him the same way he’s clearly been studying you.

“And you,” you continue, voice calm, a little amused, “look like you don’t.”

He lets out a short laugh, nodding once like fair enough. “Yeah, no, that’s… painfully accurate.”

You hum softly, turning back to the tray, setting the crystal down with a quiet click.

“So what is it?” he asks, stepping a little closer, eyes flicking back to the stones. “Like—this one specifically. What’s it do?”

You glance down. “Black tourmaline,” you say. “Protection. Grounding. Absorbs negative energy.”

Eddie’s brows lift like you just told him it shoots lasers. “No shit.”

You glance at him again, just barely smirking. “Afraid of bad vibes, Munson?”

“Constantly,” he says without missing a beat. “I’m basically a magnet for ‘em.”

You let out a quiet breath that almost passes as a laugh. Eddie notices, causing a small flicker of something, hope maybe, in his eyes. 

“So, what—” he gestures vaguely to the shelves, “—you’re into all of this? Crystals, tarot, the whole… mystical starter pack?”

Your fingers trail along the edge of the display as you move to the next section.

“Tarot’s not a starter pack,” you correct, tone even. “It’s a practice.”

Eddie follows you without thinking about it.

“Okay, yeah, sorry,” he says quickly. “Didn’t mean to disrespect the, uh, craft.”

You glance at him again. There’s something earnest in it. He’s teasing, yeah, but he’s also genuinely curious.

You pick up a deck of tarot cards, flipping the box over in your hands.

“You ever had a reading?” you ask.

He snorts. “Me? No. I feel like that’d end badly.”

“How?”

He shrugs, stepping a little closer, eyes flicking down to the cards in your hands.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Feels like I’d pull something dramatic. Like—” he gestures vaguely, “—death. Doom. Tragic ending. Whole thing.”

You hum thoughtfully. “That’s not what that card means.”

He blinks. “…seriously?”

You nod once, setting the deck back down.

“Most people think tarot’s about predicting the future,” you say. “It’s not. It’s more about reflection, patterns. What you’re already moving toward.”

Eddie watches you as you speak, something quieter settling into his expression.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “That’s actually kinda cool.” You shrug lightly, like it’s obvious.

Then you turn toward him fully, arms crossing loosely over your chest, eyes dragging over him in a way that’s just pointed enough to make him shift.

“So,” you say.

His attention snaps right back to your face.

“Why are you here, Munson?” you ask, voice smooth, a hint of something playful under it. “You don’t strike me as the crystal type.”

He huffs out a laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, alright, you got me.”

He glances toward the window, like the answer’s sitting out there.

“Your car,” he says finally, nodding once. “Saw it parked outside the comic shop.”

Your brows lift slightly. “And?”

He looks back at you, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“And I figured,” he says, a little softer now, “I’d come say hi.”

You hold his gaze for a second longer than necessary. Then, a slow, deliberate smirk.

“Hi, Eddie.”

He exhales through a grin, like he just won something he didn’t realize he was playing for.

“Hi,” he echoes.

The bell above Lady Laveous’ door gives a soft chime as you push it open again, Eddie trailing just a step behind you, like he didn’t even question it. Next door is louder, brighter.

The comic shop hums with overlapping conversations, pages flipping, someone arguing passionately about continuity like it’s life or death. The smell of paper and ink hits immediately, grounding in a completely different way.

You scan the room once and find him instantly.

Your brother is exactly where you expected, sitting cross-legged on the floor against one of the aisles, a stack of comics fanned out in front of him.

Will Byers is beside him, leaning in close, both of them mid-discussion like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

“…I’m telling you, the Dark Phoenix arc is—”

“—no, I know, but this issue—”

You don’t interrupt. You just walk over, boots quiet against the floor, and stop a few feet away.

He notices you anyway, like he always does. His head snaps up, face lighting instantly.

“Wait—hold on—” he says quickly to Will, scrambling a little as he gathers one of the comics. “You have to see this—”

You crouch down without hesitation, dropping into a kneel in front of him, elbows resting casually on your thigh as he shoves the comic into your hands.

Your whole presence shifts. It’s subtle, but it’s there. Softer around the edges; focused, patient.

He starts explaining immediately, finger tapping at a panel, words coming fast and excited, and you actually listen.

Eyes tracking where he points, nodding along, asking a quiet question here and there like you’re fully in it with him. Not humoring him, but engaging.

Eddie notices.

He lingers a few steps back at first, watching the way you lean in, the way your voice drops just slightly when you respond, the way your brother looks at you like you’re the most important person in the room.

It does something weird to his chest. Your brother glances up mid-sentence and then spots him.

“Eddie!” he says, a grin breaking across his face. Eddie straightens a little, caught, then lifts a hand in an easy wave.

“Hey, man,” he says, stepping closer now. “What’s up?”

“Nothing—just—” your brother gestures wildly to the comics, like that explains everything. “We’re talking about X-Men—”

“Shocking,” Eddie deadpans, but there’s no bite to it, just warmth. He looks at your brother a little more closely for a second.

“You doing alright?” he asks, quieter now, something more intentional under it.

Your brother nods quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

Eddie holds that for a second, like he’s making sure. Then he smiles again, softer this time.

“Good,” he says simply.

You catch it; the genuine care and concern. Your eyes flick up to Eddie for just a second, something unreadable passing through your expression before you look back down at the comic in your hands.

“…so she basically loses control here?” you ask your brother, tapping the page.

“Yeah, but it’s like—more complicated than that—”

And just like that, you’re back in it.

Eddie stays. Leans casually against the end of the aisle, arms crossed, watching the two of you like he’s stumbled into something he wasn’t expecting but doesn’t want to interrupt.

Time passes without anyone really noticing. “Alright,” you say finally, tapping the comic closed and handing it back. “We should go.”

Your brother groans immediately. “Five more minutes—”

You give him a look, not harsh, just firm. He sighs dramatically, already gathering his things.

“Fine,” he mutters, but there’s no real resistance in it.

You stand, brushing your hands off lightly, adjusting the rings on your fingers out of habit.

Eddie pushes off the shelf. “Heading out?” he asks, like he already knows the answer.

You nod once. “Yeah.”

You reach into your pocket and pull something out. Eddie’s brows knit slightly as you step closer, taking his hand without asking, turning it palm-up. And placing the crystal there.

Black tourmaline. It sits dark and solid against his skin.

“For your bad vibes,” you say, tone light, just a hint of a smirk pulling at your mouth.

Eddie lets out a quiet laugh, curling his fingers around it instinctively.

“Damn,” he says. “Didn’t even have to buy it, I’m winning today.”

You hum softly. “Don’t get used to it.”

His grin widens.

Then you add, almost casually, “Let me know if you want a tarot reading sometime.”

It sounds offhand, like you’re not thinking too hard about it. But your fingers linger just a second too long when you let go of his hand.

Long enough for him to feel something shift. He glances down at his palm again.

The crystal. And, something else.

A small, crumpled piece of paper was tucked beneath it. Eddie looks back up. You’re already turning away, grabbing your brother’s bag, and nudging him toward the door.

“Come on,” you say. “Before you start another debate.”

He follows, still talking, still mid-thought.

The bell jingles as you push the door open. And just before you step out, you glance back. Quick and sharp, that same knowing smirk from earlier. Then you’re gone.

The door swings shut behind you. Eddie stands there for a second, unmoving, the noise of the shop rushing back in around him like he just resurfaced.

Gareth appears at his shoulder out of nowhere.

“…did that just happen?” he says slowly.

Eddie doesn’t answer. He just unfolds the paper, revealing your number. His grin comes back, slower this time. A little disbelieving.

He looks down at the crystal in his hand, then back at the door you just walked out of.

“…yeah,” he mutters.

Then, to himself, “I’m definitely getting that reading.”

The house is quiet in a way that isn’t peaceful. It’s careful, measured; you know it the second you step inside.

Your brother drops his things near the door, already halfway into another thought, but you’re only half-listening now, your attention pulled down the hallway where a soft light spills from your mother’s room.

The door is cracked open, and you glance in as you pass. She’s there, propped gently against pillows, smaller than you remember even from this morning.

The hospice aide sits beside her, speaking in a low, steady voice, adjusting something at her side with practiced care.

Your mom’s eyes flick toward the doorway, toward you. You don’t linger. You offer a small, quiet smile instead.

“Hey,” you say softly. It’s enough, it has to be. She gives the faintest nod in return, something tired but still there, still her, and that’s all you need before you move on. You don’t bring the outside world in here, you never do.

Your bedroom door closes behind you with a soft click. And just like that, it’s yours again.

Your space is darker, more lived-in. Clothes draped over a chair, boots kicked near the wall, jewelry scattered across your dresser. A deck of tarot cards sits where you left it, slightly askew, like you’d been in the middle of something earlier and just stopped.

You exhale slowly and drop onto the edge of your bed. And then, your phone rings. You don’t even need to check, you just know.

You pick it up anyway, slowly raising it before bringing it to your ear, leaning back onto your mattress.

“That was quick,” you say, voice low, a little amused. “Didn’t even give the crystal time to work.”

Eddie laughs softly and a little breathless, like he’s been debating whether you'd answer or not.

“Hey, I’m just being proactive,” he says. “Can’t risk the bad vibes getting to me before I secure my tarot appointment.”

You smile, just barely, staring up at your ceiling.

“Is that what this is?” you ask. “Scheduling?”

“Mm,” he hums. “Or—” a pause, then a little shift in his tone, more careful now, “—I was thinking maybe a drink.”

He pauses.

“Or,” he adds quickly, like he knows exactly who he’s talking to, “graveyard date. I don’t know, it feels like your vibe.”

A quiet laugh slips out of you, soft and genuine.

“You’re learning,” you murmur.

“So is that a yes?” he asks.

You sit up slowly, already reaching for your jacket. “Yeah,” you say simply. “It’s a yes.”

The Hideout smells like cheap beer, cigarette smoke, and something faintly metallic from the stage equipment. It’s not packed tonight, but it’s alive enough.

Music hums low through the speakers, people clustered in small groups, the occasional burst of laughter cutting through the noise.

Eddie holds the door open for you. Not in a showy way, just instinctive. His hand finds the small of your back as you step inside, light, grounding, gone just as quickly as it came. But you feel it.

He guides you toward the bar, fingers brushing yours for a second before pulling away, like he’s testing the line without crossing it.

“What’re you drinking?” he asks.

“Whatever you’re having,” you reply.

He grins at that. “Dangerous answer.”

“Relax,” you say, leaning against the bar. “I can handle it.”

“I don’t doubt that,” he says, already turning to order.

You watch him for a second. The way he moves here is different. Comfortable. Confident in a way that’s rough around the edges but still real. Like this is one of the few places he doesn’t have to perform.

He comes back with two drinks, sliding one toward you. “Figured we’d keep it simple,” he says.

You take it, fingers brushing his again. “Smart.”

You both take a sip. There’s a moment where neither of you speaks. That never lasts long with Eddie, though. 

“So,” Eddie says, leaning his elbows against the bar, turning slightly toward you. “Can I ask you something without sounding like a total asshole?”

You glance at him over the rim of your glass. “You can try.”

He huffs a small laugh. “Why’d you come back?” he asks. “I mean—you graduated. Could’ve gone anywhere.”

You don’t answer right away. Your gaze drops to the drink in your hand, the way the light catches the surface.

Then, “My mom,” you say.

“She’s in hospice,” you add, quieter now. “It’s just my brother and me.”

You don’t dress it up, you don’t soften it. You just let it sit there. Eddie nods slowly, something in his expression shifting, settling into something deeper. 

“Yeah,” he says after a second. “I—uh…”

He trails off, like he’s searching for the right thing and coming up short. So he doesn’t force it. Instead, he leans a little closer, voice softer.

“I'm sorry, really,” he says.

You glance at him again, studying him for a second longer this time.

“You always this respectful?” you ask lightly, shifting the weight of the moment just enough.

He smiles, relief flickering through it. “Only when I’m trying to impress someone,” he says.

You hum, taking another sip. “Is it working?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah,” he says. “I think so.”

You look at him again. And for a second, something unspoken passes between you. He breaks it first, a small grin tugging at his mouth.

“You know,” he adds, “I remember you from school.”

You raise a brow. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” he says. “You sat behind me in English. Used to—” he gestures vaguely, “—draw instead of taking notes.”

You smirk slightly. “I still do that.”

“I figured,” he says. “You always had that whole… don’t-mess-with-me thing going on.”

You tilt your head. “And now?”

His eyes flick over you, slower this time, less subtle. “Now,” he says, voice dipping just a little, “you’ve got that… but worse.”

You let out a quiet breath of a laugh. “Careful, Munson.”

“Why?” he asks, leaning in just a fraction. “You gonna put a spell on me?”

You consider him for a second. “Maybe.”

He grins like he’d let you.

And somehow, in the middle of all of it, the noise, the dim lights, the weight you carry that never fully leaves, there’s something easy settling in your chest.

The music dips into something slower, bass humming low through the floor, and neither of you moves from where you’re standing. Your drinks are half gone. Your shoulders are a little closer than they were a minute ago.

It happens without either of you really clocking it. Eddie glances at you again, like he keeps forgetting you’re actually here and has to double-check.

“You know,” he says, dragging a thumb along the rim of his glass, “I always thought you were cute.”

It’s said casually, too casually. Like he’s trying to pass it off as nothing. You don’t react right away. Just tilt your head, eyes flicking up to meet his.

“Yeah?” you say, tone even.

“Yeah,” he shrugs, but there’s a nervous edge to it now. “Back in school. You just—” he gestures vaguely, searching, “—you had a whole thing going on. Kinda intimidating, but, like… in a hot way.”

You hum softly. Then, just as casually, “Same.”

Eddie blinks. “…what?”

You take a sip of your drink like you didn’t just flip his entire brain upside down.

“I thought you were hot,” you repeat, like it’s obvious. “Still do.”

He stares at you, like actually stares. Like he’s trying to figure out if you’re messing with him.

“You’re—” he lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. “You’re joking.”

You raise a brow. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

He looks at you, really looks this time, and…no. You’re not.

“Holy shit,” he mutters, more to himself than anything.

You smirk, just slightly. “Surprised?”

“Yeah,” he says immediately. “Yeah, a little. I mean—” he gestures to himself, “—look at me.”

“I am,” you say.

That does not help him, at all. He huffs out a laugh, running a hand through his hair, a little flustered now in a way that’s almost endearing.

“Okay, wait—hold on,” he says. “You’re telling me I could’ve—what—talked to you back then?”

“You did talk,” you remind him. “Just not to me.”

His brows knit. “What?”

“In the cafeteria,” you say, leaning your elbow on the bar, angling toward him. “You were always loud. Always putting on a show for your table. Ranting about something. Music, movies, forced conformity, whatever.”

He winces slightly. “Jesus, that sounds annoying.”

“It wasn’t,” you say. He pauses. You shrug lightly, like it’s nothing.

“It was…” You search for the word, then settle on “entertaining.”

That earns a small, disbelieving smile. “Entertaining,” he repeats.

“Yeah,” you say. “You didn’t care if people were looking at you.”

Eddie lets out a quiet breath. “That’s not entirely true,” he says.

You tilt your head. “No?”

“No,” he shakes his head. “I cared. Just—” he shrugs, “—figured if they were gonna look anyway, I might as well give ‘em something.”

“So you turned it into a performance,” you say.

“Exactly,” he nods. “See? You get it.”

“I do,” you murmur.

A small pause settles between you.

Then you add, quieter now, “I liked it.”

That softens something in him, noticeably so.

“Well,” he says, a hint of a grin coming back, “I wish I knew that back then. Might’ve taken my act on the road.”

You roll your eyes slightly, but there’s no bite to it. “Please don’t.”

“Too late,” he says. “I’m already planning my world tour.”

You huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “I like you better like this,” you say.

He glances at you. “How’s that?”

You nod subtly toward the room, toward everything and nothing at the same time.

“Not trying so hard,” you say. “Still loud. Just… different.”

Eddie’s gaze holds yours for a second longer this time.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Guess I had to grow into it.”

You nod once. Then, almost as an afterthought, “You’re good with my brother.”

It’s not a question.

“Oh, uh, yeah,” he says. “He’s a good kid.”

“He is,” you agree.

“He talks about Hellfire a lot,” you add. “Says it’s the one place he doesn’t have to…” You trail off, searching for the word, then just gesture vaguely, “…deal with stuff.”

Eddie’s jaw tightens just a fraction. Not in anger, but in understanding.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “That’s kinda the point.”

You nod, eyes dropping briefly to your drink. When you look back up, there’s something softer in your expression.

“I noticed,” you say. “The way you are with him.”

Eddie shrugs, a little uncomfortable with the attention now.

“I just make sure everyone’s good,” he says. “That’s it.”

“It’s not nothing,” you reply.

He looks at you again, slower this time.

“Thanks,” he says.

You hum lightly, then tilt your head, letting that faint smirk creep back in. “Don’t get too humble on me now,” you add. “It’s not a good look.”

He laughs, tension breaking instantly. “Oh, don’t worry,” he says. “Ego’s still very much intact.”

“Good,” you say, tapping your glass lightly against his. “I’d hate to ruin your whole persona.”

He leans in just slightly, grin crooked.

“You already did that when you told me you thought I was hot.”

You meet him halfway without even realizing it. “Get used to it,” you murmur.

And for a second, it’s just the two of you. Close. Easy. Like this has been building longer than either of you realized.

By the time you step out of The Hideout, the night has settled into that soft, quiet kind of dark Hawkins does so well. Cool air, distant crickets, the low hum of nothing in particular.

Eddie’s a little tipsy. Not sloppy. Just warmer, a little looser. The edges of him softened in a way that makes everything he does feel a little more exaggerated. Which, apparently, includes manners.

“Wait,” he says quickly when you move towards his car.

You pause, turning slightly. He jogs a step ahead of you, circling around like he’s cutting you off on purpose, then reaches for the passenger door of his van.

Your brows lift. “Oh?” you murmur.

Eddie swings the door open with a dramatic little flourish, one hand braced against it, the other extended toward you.

“M’lady,” he says, dipping his head just enough to be ridiculous.

You stare at him for a second. Then, a slow smile.

“You’re drunk,” you say.

“Tipsy,” he corrects, offended. “There’s a difference. This is refined. This is chivalry.”

“Is that what this is?”

“Absolutely,” he says. “Now get in the chariot.”

You huff a quiet laugh, stepping closer. His hand is still extended, and you take it.

He steadies you like you actually need it, guiding you up into the seat with surprising care, like you’re something fragile instead of well, you.

It doesn’t feel patronizing. It feels intentional, sweet in only a way he could muster. 

You slide into the van, watching him as he shuts the door gently behind you, then rounds the front, still muttering something under his breath about “proper etiquette” and “respectful gentlemen.”

You’re smiling when he gets in. He notices immediately.

“What?” he asks, glancing at you as he starts the engine.

“Nothing,” you say. “Just didn’t take you for the ‘m’lady’ type.”

He grins, a little crooked. “Hey, I contain multitudes.”

“I can see that.”

The ride is easy. Windows cracked just enough to let the night air drift in, music low on the radio, something soft and scratchy that fills the silence without demanding attention.

Eddie drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely near the gear shift, occasionally tapping along to the rhythm.

Every now and then, his eyes flick toward you, like he’s checking if you’re still there. Like he can’t quite believe you are. When he pulls up outside your house, the engine idles for a second before he shuts it off.

Neither of you moves right away. Then, Eddie exhales, like he’s making a decision.

He hops out first. You don’t even reach for the door handle before it opens. He’s there again, hand extended. This time, there’s less theatrics.

Still a little dramatic, sure, but softer; more him. You take his hand again, stepping down from the van, boots hitting the pavement.

He doesn’t let go immediately. Instead, he shifts, offering you his arm. Full-on elbow bent, posture straightening like he’s about to escort you into a ballroom instead of up a cracked walkway in Hawkins, Indiana.

Your eyes flick to it, then back to him. “You’re serious?” you ask.

“Dead serious,” he says. “A lady should never have to walk unescorted.”

You laugh under your breath, but you slide your arm through his anyway.

“Alright,” you murmur. “Lead the way.”

He does. Slowly, deliberately, like the short walk to your door is some grand procession. His hand comes up lightly over yours, where it rests on his arm, thumb brushing once, absentmindedly.

“You know,” he says as you walk, voice a little softer now, “I definitely would’ve asked you out in high school if I knew you were into me.”

You glance at him. “And miss out on this?” you say. “Tragic.”

He huffs a laugh. “Yeah, alright, fair point.”

You reach your door too quickly. Eddie slows, turning slightly toward you, still holding your arm like he’s not quite ready to let the moment end.

Then, he gently takes your hand and turns it over. And before you can say anything, he dips his head and presses a soft, exaggerated kiss to your knuckles. Warm, lingering just a second too long.

Your breath catches, just slightly. He pulls back, grinning up at you, a little dazed, a little bold.

“Goodnight,” he says.

“Goodnight, Eddie,” you reply, voice quieter now.

He hesitates like he might say something else. He doesn’t. 

Instead, he steps back slowly, hands lifting in a small, almost awkward wave before he turns toward his van.

You watch him go. Wait until he’s halfway down the driveway before you call out…“Hey.”

He turns immediately. You lean against your doorframe, arms crossing loosely.

“That reading?” you say.

His grin comes back, bright and immediate. “Yeah?”

“Tomorrow, noon,” you tell him.

He nods once. “Noon,” he echoes. And then he’s gone.

Noon comes sooner than you expect.

The house feels lighter. Not empty, not exactly. Just quieter in a way that doesn’t press in on your chest.

Your mom is out with the hospice nurse, your brother already gone, probably halfway through an argument at the Wheelers' about campaign logistics.

Incense burns low on your dresser, something warm and resinous curling through the air. The windows are cracked, letting in a thin strip of daylight that cuts across your floor, catching on glass bottles, crystals, the edges of your altar.

Your room is… a lot, to say the least. Chaos in the best way.

Dark walls covered in art and prints, layered like you never stopped adding to them. Your bed is unmade but intentional, blankets heavy and textured. Candles sit in clusters, some burned low, some untouched.

Shelves lined with jars and herbs in little labeled bottles. Your altar takes up an entire corner, pentacle mounted above it, small offerings arranged with care.

It looks like a space that’s been built. Lived in.

You, today, are softer.

Black (naturally) low-rise sweats hanging just right on your hips, a fitted cami that shows more skin than you usually let people see.

Your hair is pulled up into a loose ponytail, strands falling out around your face, exposing the spider tattoo at the nape of your neck.

You look… off-duty. Still you, just less armored.

The knock comes right on time. You don’t rush, just pad down the hallway, open the door, and—

Eddie.

He looks like he hasn’t fully recovered from last night. Not in a bad way. Just a little dazed still, like he’s still catching up.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” you echo.

His eyes flick over you, pausing for just a second. Then he clears his throat, like he’s trying to be normal about it.

“You weren’t kidding about noon,” he says.

“You showed up,” you reply.

“Yeah,” he nods. “Didn’t wanna risk missing my appointment.”

You step back, letting him in. “Come on.”

He follows you down the hallway, slower this time, taking things in without trying to be obvious about it. But the second he steps into your room, he stops. Like, actually stops.

“…holy shit.”

You glance back at him, leaning casually against your dresser. “What?”

He turns in a slow circle, taking everything in like he just walked into another dimension.

“You’ve got—” he gestures vaguely, overwhelmed, “—you’ve got, like… the entirety Lady Laveau’s shop in here.”

That pulls a smirk from you. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, still looking around. “I mean, this is—this is legit. This isn’t like… a phase or something.”

“It never was,” you say.

He glances at you again. “Clearly,” he mutters.

He moves further in, drawn toward your shelves, your altar, the little details. His fingers hover over things but don’t touch, like he knows better. Then his attention shifts to your record player, a stack of vinyls leaning beside it.

His face lights up. “Oh, okay. Now we’re talking.”

You push off the dresser, walking over as he crouches slightly, flipping through them.

“Type O Negative,” he reads, impressed. “Nice.”

He pulls another. “Deftones—oh, shit.”

You lean against the edge of your desk, arms crossed loosely.

“Are you about to judge me, Munson?” 

He glances up. “What? No—”

You tilt your head. “Nu-metal’s frowned upon, remember?” you say. “Thought you metalheads had rules.”

Eddie snorts, straightening. “Yeah, okay, some people are like that,” he says. “Bunch of gatekeeping bullshit.”

You watch him, curious. He shrugs.

“Music’s music,” he adds. “If it sounds good, it sounds good. Who cares what box it fits in?”

You hum softly. “That’s surprisingly open-minded of you.”

“Hey,” he points at you, mock serious, “I contain multitudes. We’ve been over this.”

He sets the record back down carefully, glancing around your room again, slower this time. Taking you in with it.

“You’ve got good taste,” he says.

“In music or… everything else?” you ask.

He looks at you and doesn’t look away. “…both,” he says.

Then he gestures lightly toward your setup, toward the tarot deck resting nearby.

“So,” he says, a little quieter now. “This where the magic happens?”

You push off the desk, stepping closer. “Something like that.”

He nods once, settling in. You move slower now, clearing a space on your desk, pushing aside a few jars, straightening the cloth beneath your hands like this part actually matters.

Eddie leans back in your chair, trying to look relaxed. He’s failing a little.

“So,” you say, glancing up at him, fingers resting lightly on your deck. “What do you want to know?”

He grins immediately. “Lottery numbers.”

You don’t even blink. “No.”

He laughs, shoulders loosening.

“Okay, okay—uh…” he rubs the back of his neck, thinking. “Am I gonna, like, die young in some freak accident?”

You raise a brow. “Seriously?”

“…yeah, alright, fair.”

The humor fades just enough. “Just—” he shrugs, quieter now, “—I don’t know. Where things are going. For me.”

You nod once. “Okay.”

You tap the deck lightly against the table. Once. Twice. Grounding. Then you begin to shuffle, cards sliding cleanly between your fingers.

Eddie watches, trying desperately not to stare. And he's failing miserably. 

Your rings catch the light when your hands move. The faint scent of incense clings to everything. The way your expression shifts, focused, almost distant, like you’ve stepped into something he doesn’t fully understand.

He swallows. “You always look like this when you do it?” he asks.

You don’t look up. “Like what?”

“Like you know something I don’t.”

A small pause. Then, “Maybe I do.”

That shuts him up. You split the deck, laying three cards face down between you.

“Three card spread,” you say. “Past, present, future.”

He nods like he understands, but he absolutely does not.

“Don’t freak out,” you add.

“Noted.”

You flip the first card: Five of Pentacles.

You study it for a second, then glance at him.

“Past,” you say. “This is… hardship. Feeling left out. Unsupported. Like you’ve had to figure things out on your own.”

Eddie huffs a quiet breath.

“…okay,” he mutters. “That’s a little on the nose.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Is it wrong?”

“No,” he says quickly. “Just—” a small, disbelieving laugh, “—didn’t expect you to clock me that fast.”

You don’t react. Just nod once, like that’s enough, and move on.

The second card flips: The Magician.

Your fingers pause on it. A hint of a smile tugs at your mouth.

“Present,” you say. “This is you stepping into your own power. Creating something for yourself. Using what you have, even if it’s not much.”

Eddie leans forward now, actually interested.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “That’s… kinda cool.”

You glance at him. “It’s confidence,” you add. “Even if you fake it sometimes.”

He lets out a short laugh. “Yeah, that tracks.”

You hold his gaze for a second. “Still counts.”

Then, you flip the last card and pause, your expression shifting slightly, somewhat amused. Eddie notices immediately.

“What?” he asks. “Is that the death one?”

You shake your head, lips pressing together briefly like you’re holding back a reaction.

“No.”

You turn the card toward him: Two of Cups.

He stares at it. “…that mean anything good?” he asks cautiously.

You lean back slightly, studying him now instead of the cards.

“It’s connection,” you say. “Partnership. Mutual attraction. Something… balanced.”

He blinks, looks at the card again, then back at you.

“…like romantic?” he asks.

You don’t rush the answer. “Could be,” you say. “If you let it.”

There’s a pause, then he laughs. Soft, a little nervous.

“Okay, that’s—” he shakes his head, running a hand through his hair, “—that’s kinda creepy.”

You raise a brow. “Why?”

He gestures vaguely between the two of you, the room, the timing of all of this.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Feels a little too convenient.”

You hum softly. “Or,” you say, “you’re just noticing it.”

That shuts him up again. He looks at you again this time, eyes widening like a baby deer caught in headlights. 

“Yeah,” he says, almost under his breath. You gather the cards slowly, stacking them back together with the same care you started with.

Eddie exhales, leaning back again, but his eyes don’t leave you.

“That was…” he trails off, searching. “Actually, really cool.”

You shrug lightly. “Told you.”

He swallows, that nervous little laugh slipping out again.

“New romantic connection, huh?” His voice is lower than usual, rough at the edges.

He rubs the back of his neck. “Didn’t know the universe was this fucking nosy.”

You don’t answer right away. Just tilt your head, letting the silence stretch until his knee starts bouncing under the desk. 

He’s hopelessly gone already: you can see it in the way his gaze keeps dropping to your mouth, then your collarbones, then snapping back up like he’s trying not to get caught.

You stand, slow and deliberate. The incense smoke curls around your bare shoulders as you round the desk.

Eddie’s breath catches when you stop right in front of him, thighs brushing his knees. He looks up at you, dark eyes wide and hungry and a little scared, like he still can’t believe this is real.

You close the gap.

Your fingers slide into his wild curls, tugging just enough to tilt his head back, and you kiss him like you’ve been waiting years for the excuse. 

Hard, deep, all tongue and teeth and zero hesitation. Eddie makes this wrecked sound against your mouth, half groan, half sigh, and then he’s kissing you back like a man drowning.

His hands find your waist, gripping hard enough to bruise, pulling you down into his lap so you’re straddling him in the chair. The kiss turns filthy fast. Tongues sliding, lips bitten, breathing shared like you’re trying to climb inside each other.

He breaks it first, just enough to rest his forehead against yours, panting. “Jesus Christ…”

You smirk, lips brushing his. “Still nervous, Munson?”

“Terrified,” he admits, voice wrecked. Then he kisses you again, slower this time, savoring.

His hands slide under the hem of your top, palms hot against your skin. He tugs it up and you let him, lifting your arms so he can pull it off.

The cool air hits your chest, your pierced nipples already tight. Eddie’s eyes go black.

“Fuck,” he breathes, reverent. “You’ve been hiding these?”

He leans in and drags his tongue over one barbell, slow and deliberate, then sucks the whole thing into his mouth. You arch into him with a sharp gasp. 

He groans at the taste of you, switching to the other nipple, teasing the metal with his teeth, sucking hard enough to make your thighs clench around his hips.

You yank at his shirt in retaliation. He helps you rip it off, and when it hits the floor, your eyes drop to his chest; silver barbells glinting through both nipples.

A surprised, delighted laugh slips out of you. “Well, well.”

Eddie grins, a little shy, a little cocky. “What, you thought you had the market cornered on being hot and pierced?”

You don’t answer with words. You lean down and flick your tongue over one of his, tugging the barbell gently with your teeth. He hisses, hips bucking up into you.

He stands up with you still wrapped around him like it’s nothing, turns, and lays you back on your bed.

The blankets bunch under you as he kisses down your body: mouth greedy over your tits again, then lower, tongue tracing every tattoo like he’s memorizing them. 

He peels your sweats and panties down in one go, tossing them aside. Then he drops to his knees between your spread thighs like a man at church.

“Eddie—”

He doesn’t let you finish. He buries his face in your center like he’s starving for it. No teasing. Just broad, hungry strokes of his tongue, sucking your clit into his mouth, moaning at the taste like he’s the one being pleased. Because he definitely is.  

Two thick fingers push inside you without warning, curling hard.

You cry out, back arching. He pulls back just enough to grin up at you, lips shiny.

“What, the college boys aren’t doing this? Not eating this pretty pussy like it’s their last meal?”

You don’t even dignify that with a full sentence. You just grab a fistful of his hair and shove his face back down.

He laughs into your cunt; vibrating, filthy, then doubles down. Licking, sucking, fucking you with his fingers while his tongue works your clit in relentless circles.

He edges you mercilessly.

Every time you get close, thighs shaking, he slows down. Pulls back to kiss your inner thighs, bite the soft skin there, whisper shit like “Not yet, baby. Want you dripping for me.”

Then he dives back in, sucking harder, fingers pumping faster, until you’re right there again, only for him to ease off.

You’re cursing him, begging, hips grinding against his face. He just moans louder, eating you like he could do this for hours.

When he finally lets you tip over, you come so hard your vision whites out, thighs locked around his head, his name ripped from your throat.

He doesn’t stop, just keeps licking you through it, gentler now, until you’re twitching and oversensitive.

Then he’s crawling up your body, kissing you so you taste yourself on his tongue. His jeans are gone (when did he lose those?), cock thick and leaking against your thigh.

He looks down at you, hair wild, mouth swollen, eyes soft even as his voice comes out rough. “You sure?”

You pull him down by the necklace, kissing him hard, all teeth and hunger. “Now, please.” 

He doesn’t need telling twice.

He lines up and pushes in; slow at first, thick cock stretching you open inch by inch. You both groan at the same time, the wet sound of him sinking into your soaked center filling the room.

He bottoms out with a broken curse, hips flush against yours, buried to the hilt.

“Fuck, you feel—Jesus Christ,” he rasps, forehead pressed to yours for one shaky second.

Then that sweetness fades into something else entirely.

Eddie pulls back and slams in hard, setting a brutal pace right away. Deep, punishing snaps of his hips that punch the air out of your lungs. 

The bed creaks violently beneath you. One of his hands pins your thigh wide open, spreading you obscenely, the other braced beside your head as he fucks you like he’s trying to crawl inside your ribs.

“Harder,” you gasp immediately, nails raking down his back. “Eddie—harder, please—”

He growls, low and feral, and gives it to you. Thrusts so deep and rough your tits bounce with every impact. He drops his mouth to one, sucking hard, teeth grazing the barbell while he rails you.

“Like that?” he pants against your skin. “This what you want, sweetheart? Want me to fuck you stupid?”

“Yes please.” You’re already begging, voice cracking. “Don’t stop, Eddie, please—”

He straightens up, grabs both your thighs and folds you nearly in half, pounding into you with short, savage strokes. The wet slap of skin on skin is filthy. Every thrust drags perfectly over that spot inside you until you’re shaking, clawing at his shoulders.

You come hard the first time; clenching around his cock like a vice, soaking him, crying out his name. He fucks you straight through it without slowing, hips snapping relentlessly.

“Again,” he demands, voice rough. “Come on my cock again. Let me feel it.”

He flips you onto your stomach, yanking your hips, face south and ass north.

Then he slams back in, even deeper, one hand fisted tight in your messy ponytail, the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave marks. He fucks you like an animal; fast, brutal, and unrelenting.

“Eddie—oh my god—harder!” you sob into the sheets, pushing back to meet every thrust. “Fuck me harder, please—I can take it—”

“Shit, listen to you,” he groans, sounding wrecked. He leans over you, chest to your back, teeth sinking into your shoulder as he gives you exactly what you’re begging for.

The new angle has him hitting so deep it almost hurts, but the pleasure is white-hot. “Greedy little thing. Begging so pretty for me.”

You come a second time like that, screaming into the mattress, fluttering and gushing around him. Your legs shake violently. Eddie doesn’t let up. He reaches under you, fingers finding your swollen clit and rubbing fast, mean circles.

“Third one,” he growls against your ear. “Give me another. I want you fucking ruined.”

“Harder—Eddie, please, I need it harder—” You’re babbling now, oversensitive and desperate, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from how good it feels.

He pulls your hair tighter, hips slamming into you so hard the headboard starts smacking the wall. “That’s it, take it. Take every fucking inch.”

You shatter again, harder than before, whole body seizing, vision going white as you soak his cock and thighs. Only then does Eddie finally let himself go.

He buries himself to the hilt with a guttural moan of your name, hips jerking as he spills deep inside you, pulse after pulse of hot cum.

He grinds through it, like he’s trying to push it even deeper, groaning curses and praise against your neck.

You both collapse, sweaty and trembling. Eddie’s weight pins you to the bed, but it feels perfect. 

He’s still inside you, softening slowly, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your shoulder, your neck, the side of your face; soft and reverent now that the storm has passed.

You turn your head just enough to catch his mouth in a lazy, sated kiss.

“Hi,” you murmur, voice hoarse and wrecked.

Eddie chuckles softly against your skin, nuzzling into your hair. “Hi, sweetheart.”

His arms tighten around you, one hand gently stroking down your spine. “You okay? I wasn’t too rough?”

You smile, eyes half-closed, body trembling. “Perfect. Round two later?”

He laughs, warm and low. “So greedy.”

“So, is that a no?”

“Definitely fucking not.” 

okay i say this every time but i am OBSESSED WITH THISSSUSHSHS. i feel like i could make any of these one shots a series LMAO.

requests are open!!

beasbuggies:

 @kozume-ko, @obsessed-eddie, @doomdabss, @julxsxx, @leelei1980@hexqueensupreme @ches-86 @plaidamoosette @bobiverses @meadows-of-asphodel @whitakerstorm @dreamerjj @sariahs-stuff

(please let me know if i forgot anyone or if you'd like to be added!!)

[esotericclinomaniac]

[xxmooxmooxx]

You know what, a new haircut, a little boob, and a pirate outfit would also do it for me too so Spencer is SO REAL for that

LMAOOO same here! i’m really glad you liked the story 🥺🤧🖤

also i love the ethan pfp🖤

[xxmooxmooxx]

Scared With You

a spencer agnew x enby reader fic

pt 2

summary: after seeing reader in a new light on halloween, spencer can’t get them out of his head.

authors note: guys i didn’t think id ever get the energy to write a part two but i saw pt got a few more likes the past couple weeks and this pt just hit me like a train. literally wrote this in my notes app on my phone lmao. i really hope you guys like this one! pls enjoy! and you already know i looove feedback!

warnings: age gap, enby reader (afab), mention of reader having boobs, eventual smut, mentions of boner, pervy!spencer if you squint, they fell first he fell harder

spencer is their coworker

spencer is professional.

spencer is 9 years older than them

spencer has not stopped thinking of his favorite coworker since he saw them at that damn halloween party.

“why am i such a man?” he thinks to himself. “new hair, a little boob, and a pirate outfit and you suddenly realize that they are the most attractive person you’ve ever met?”

maybe i’ve always just been drawn to them and seeing them outside of our place of work made me realize that they aren’t just my coworker but a whole person with a life outside of work that i now wanna be a part of.

all these thoughts are running through his head as he walks into work the monday after angela’s party. “hey spence!” angela says way too chipper for the time of day it is.

“hey ang, how bad was your hangover?”

“honestly not bad at all. you drive y/n home from the party?”

spencer stops in his tracks

“huh?”

“y/n?”

“i know what you said.”

“oh…”

“i mean why do you ask?”

“they were just telling me about it earlier and they were asking if i had your cashapp so they could send you gas money for taking the home.” angela says with a confused look on her face.

“they don’t need to do that.”

“i told them that i don’t have it but that you probably wouldn’t expect it anyways.”

“why would they think they have to do that? i offered.” he thinks to himself as him and angela keep walking

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

throughout the day he catches glimpses of them writing away at their desk… wondering if they are doing the same when he’s not looking.

closer to the end of a busy day spencer’s favorite coworker approach’s him. he feels their presence before he sees them.

“hey spencer, i just wanted to let you know that i finished this rough draft of some ideas i have for the new years live stream.”

“oh yeah for sure im excited to see what you came up with.”

“yeah im pretty excited, if i do say so myself.” a moment of silence. y/n looks down at their shoes as spencer continues to look at them.“also i uh really wanna send you some money for gas since you took me home after ang’s party the other night.”

“y/n-

“listen i really really appreciated it.” they look up at spencer. “i honestly get a lot of anxiety taking ubers especially when im not sober so it meant a lot.”

“y/n i offered to take you home because i wanted to.”

“spencer you’re so nice but i know you were probably tired and-

“y/n i wanted to. it wasn’t an issue. i wasn’t an inconvenience. i wanted to. i got to spend more time with you and jam out.” he smiles. “not to mention i got to finally meet skips and see your sick fnaf shrine.”

y/ns face softens “thank you.”

spencer nudges their shoulder with his hand. “anytime.”

the two of them walked out to the parking lot, said their goodbyes, and went home for the night.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

“a shoulder nudge, dude?” spencer says out loud to himself. as he gets out of the shower. “i’m an idiot.”

~ding~

y/n⭐️

hey, ik this is probably annoying

asf but i have no friends and your

my favorite coworker so thats

close enough.

help me pick out an outfit?

spencer nearly drops his phone

spencer🥸

im down.

what are we working with?

facetime call from y/n⭐️

"shit shit shit shit!" spencer whisper yells as he runs through his bedroom to throw on some clothes.

"heyyyyy y/n!!!" spencer excitedly says ask he answers the phone, a little out of breath, just before the call ends

“heyyy spencerrrrr... im sorry this is so awkward i just thought this would probably be easier”

“it’s not awkward at all. what do we got and what is it for?”

“okay so, my childhood bestfriend made a short film and wants me to go to the release and i have NO IDEA what to wear.”

“i thought you said you had no friends”

“well i didn’t wanna bother him. but i enjoy bothering you... sometimes.” y/n giggles

“sometimes?” spencer grins

y/ns jaw drops. “rude!”

“i’m just kidding, y/n.” they both giggle. “what’s the theme? dress code?”

“he described it to me as ‘old, catholic, and gothic’”

spencer immediately starts thinking of y/n in the entire and his mouth runs dry.

“that would uh be really cool. anything you have that you think you can piece together for that? i’m thinking a lot of layers”

y/n thinks before propping their phone up and walking off camera, assumingly to their closest. another dangerous glimpse into their life outside of work. seeing them in their pjs.

“all of my clothes are already black… maybe a long skirt? or a skirt over a dress? the black corset i wore for halloween?”

spencer face plants into his pillow as reminders of their halloween costume fill his head. “that sounds like a good start.”

a few moments pass “alright…” they walk back into frame “how’s this as a base?”

what the fuck is he suppose to say? do? they are literally looking at him waiting for him to say something. jesus christ.

“i think you look great. what else are you thinking?” he mange’s to get out. his dick straining against his pajama pants.

“i have like hella jewelry so i’ll definitely dress it up that way. what about something for my arms? maybe my lacey black cardigan? fishnets on my arms?” they walk closer to their phone and start rummaging through their dresser that their phone is propped up on.

‘i need to get off this phone call. now.’ spencer thinks to himself. “why not both?” he suggests.

they look up at spencer. “you know what. you’re so right.” they smile grabbing both from the dresser.

“i’m so sorry, y/n. i’m getting a phone call. text me?”

“yeah of course. talk to you later!”

“bye…”

call with y/n⭐️ ended

“fuck…”

[riddlersoupwrites]

Prologue.

My Little Star-Child,

Happy birthday, my moon-blessed girl. By now, the world has likely changed quite a bit. I imagine things are faster, louder, and shinier. But I hope you’ve kept your feet bare whenever possible and your spirit tucked away in the quiet places.

If you’ve felt a hum in your blood lately, a tug toward the tides or a knack for knowing who is calling before the phone even rings, don't shy away from it. That is the thread. Pull it.

The Earth is your first mother. When you feel lost, lay your palms flat against the soil. She will steady your heart.

Magic isn't always lightning and silver sparks. Sometimes it’s just the way the light hits a spiderweb, or the perfect cup of mugwort tea. It’s in the intention, not just the ritual.

Never let them dim your weird. Avoid snails on the path, let them continue their journey as you continue yours.

I’ve tucked a small velvet pouch into the bottom of this box. It contains a piece of raw labradorite, it was the first stone I ever bought for myself at a street fair in San Francisco. Hold it when you need to see through the fog. Also, there’s a sprig of dried rosemary for remembrance.

I may be a ghost in the rafters or a breeze through your window by the time you read this, but I am never truly gone. I am woven into the lace of your sleeves and the dreams you haven't had yet.

Drink some wine, dance until your hair is a wild mess, and remember that you are a daughter of the moon.

With all my love, through the stars and back,

Mama

@exooojongdaeee @3xclusivemariii @votel4dybird @farrowroyale @guineveresghost @kissalready @rook-the-took @frankenkyle19 @xxmooxmooxx @farrowroyale @dreamerjj

[riddlersoupwrites]

𝑾𝒊𝒕𝒄𝒉𝒚 𝑾𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏.

𝑺𝒉𝒆 𝒈𝒐𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒐𝒏 𝒊𝒏 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒆𝒚𝒆.

You've always been different. You followed in the bare footsteps of your mother, collecting wild herbs, making homemade salves. You trust your intuition more than your eyes, you keep your tea leaves and secrets close. You never apologise for your wildness.

Steve Harrington never expected to get wrapped up in the world of crystals, tarot and long flowing skirts in the moonlight. But after you help him in a moment of weakness, he is well and truly under your spell, even if you didn't cast one. Yet he's handling unfamiliar territory, having to battle for your affection with none other than Eddie Munson.

Eddie knows he's better suited to you. He understands you, and your strange obsessions, endorses them, infact. What he doesn't understand, is why Steve has taken an interest in you after years of his friends assigning you names such as weirdo, freak and witch. He's not sure if he wants to find out.

Stuck between the two polar opposites, you're not sure if the safety of similarity is better than the opportunity of something new. Your intuition isn't guiding you towards one or the other. This time, even the cards can't tell you who to choose.

⋆˚꩜｡Steve, reader and Eddie love triangle, weird witchy female reader, no use of y/n, fluffy, smutty, angsty, mentions of previous bullying, Steve has shitty parents, cannabis use, alcohol consumption, specific tags will be added to the relevant chapters. Multiple part series set between s2 and s3.

⋆˚꩜｡Chapter one coming soon...

[corollaim]

banter & bravado

『 masterlist 』

summary: you have to go undercover as your rival’s girlfriend. relationship: spencer reid x rival!fem!reader genre: smut - MDNI! word count: 6.3k tags: definitely unrealistic undercover proceedings, banter about virginity & sex, idiots in love, dom!spencer, sub!reader, explicit sexual content - MDNI!, kissing, making out, oral (reader receiving), degradation ? (dumbification of reader), edging, thick fucking, more edging, implication of further intimacy author’s note: feeding into the post-prison dom!spencer delusions here even though i am a firm sub believer… hope y’all enjoy these freaks

based on requests one & two

If it were up to you, you’d be on an actual date tonight. Unfortunately for you, being a member of the BAU entails surrendering control of your schedule; day in and day out, you’re forced to drop everything at a moment’s notice to pursue a case. While you love your job and being on-call is rarely more than a nuisance, it’s turned into quite the headache tonight, namely because you’re currently undercover with your least favorite teammate.

Okay, that might be a bit of an exaggeration. You don’t actually dislike Spencer Reid—quite the opposite, actually. He’s more of a frenemy than an outright nemesis, and you genuinely find engaging in sharp-tongued banter with him to be quite entertaining. 

Your rivalry started practically the minute you joined the BAU; the day you arrived, you had proudly announced that your favorite book was some shitty, slutty romance novel. You had seen the stack of Penguin classics on Spencer’s desk and plucked the arbitrary title from the depths of your mind solely because you knew a fan of real literature would be insulted by your choice. Of course, he had fallen for it. You were one hundred percent bullshitting him, yet he took personal offense to your self-proclaimed favorite. Predictably, he’s been determined to prove his intellectual superiority ever since, and your apparent indifference while he does so grates his nerves to no end. Honestly, you find it hilarious that you’ve been on the team for nearly a year at this point, and he still insists that your “childish preferences are a reflection of your greater incompetence.”

Just the thought of him saying so has you threatening to giggle. 

“Here.” Spencer’s voice snaps you out of your thoughts. You tear your eyes from their absentminded stare as he slaps a tall glass onto the table, a rivulet of clear liquid dribbling over the lip. Your brow furrows as you assess the cup with an unimpressed glare.

“What the hell is this?” you ask as Spencer slides into the booth. He opts to sit on the same side as you, trapping you between him and the wall, sliding the glass closer to you. You lean forward, cautiously sniffing its contents.

“Sprite,” he answers, rolling his eyes. “Jesus, relax.”

“Excuse me,” you retort sharply, lifting the glass to your lips and taking a dainty sip. The soda fizzes pleasantly as you swallow, warmth sliding down your throat. You shoot a sidelong glance at Spencer and murmur, “I wouldn’t put it past you to get me drunk so you can take all the credit when we catch this guy.”

The rest of the team is stationed outside, ready to intervene once the unsub arrives. He’s a sexual sadist who’s been targeting women in the area. More specifically, women he deems guilty of infidelity. It’s an easy enough setup; fawn all over Spencer before approaching the unsub, and you’re sure to piss him off. The most fallible aspect of the plan isn’t even luring the unsub outside; it’s playing a convincing couple. While you find Spencer ridiculously attractive, it’s become second nature at this point to tease him until he’s red in the face—from either embarrassment or blatant irritation. 

Spencer snorts. “I don’t need to get you drunk to do that.”

According to Garcia, the unsub is en route to the bar, but won’t arrive for another several minutes. Essentially, this information translates to: you still have a few minutes to go tête à tête without having to monitor your facial expressions. You say pointedly, “So you admit that you’d step on everyone on your way to the top?” You offer Spencer a smug smirk over the lip of your glass. 

“Not everyone, just you,” he replies flatly. You huff with amusement, gaping at him with faux indignance. 

“Aw, is that any way to talk to the only girlfriend you’ll ever have?” you coo, a disappointed pout downturning your lips. 

“Fake girlfriend,” Spencer tersely responds, as if the thought of verifiably dating you horrifies him. A glint of mischief flits in his eyes as he mocks, “Or are you so obsessed with me that you forgot?”

“You’re not my type,” you lie easily. The two of you have fallen into this sort of flirtatious teasing so many times, you’ve almost convinced yourself that you’re telling the truth. Almost.

Spencer sighs dramatically, his lips twitching into the smallest smile. “Well, that’s a relief.”

“Yes, your virginity lives to see another day,” you deadpan. Blinking harshly at him, you add, “Phew.”

Narrowing his eyes, his smile looks downright feline. “At least look like you’re enjoying yourself while you spit unoriginal insults at me.”

“I am enjoying myself,” you boast gleefully. “It’s actually pretty cathartic to—”

“Shut up and get your ass over here,” Spencer whispers, words laced with a frantic yet insistent energy. 

“I beg your—” you scoff, but before you can finish vocalizing your thought, he’s grabbing you by the hips and planting you firmly in his lap. Not only are you in his lap—you’re straddling it. Your dress is riding up your thighs, and you’re very thankful that you had the foresight to wear some spandex shorts beneath the skirt. You gape at him, simultaneously shocked and turned on by how easily he’s thrown you over his thighs. 

The movement jostled a curl from behind your ear, and Spencer reaches up to tenderly tuck the hair back into place. With one hand cupping the back of your neck and the other gripping your hip, he leans toward you. Your breath hitches, and for a brief moment, you allow yourself to indulge in the delusion that this is real. Spencer angles his lips toward your ear and murmurs, “He’s here. Just do your job.”

His words course through your veins like icy water, effectively cooling the heat in your core. Refusing to let any disappointment show, you plaster on a joyous smile, which isn’t all that much of a challenge when the hottest man you know is smirking at you like you’re the prettiest little thing he’s ever seen. 

“Bossy,” you tease through your teeth. Your hands lift to his shoulders, fingers fiddling with the collar of his dress shirt. Just playing the part, you tell yourself. Another plus of those spandex? He can’t tell how wet you’re getting. Weakly, you taunt, “Admit it, you just wanted an excuse to put me in your lap.”

“You are so—”

“Lovely?” you interrupt, injecting as much sweetness into your smile as possible. Spencer squints at you, and you sigh, “Come on. If you’re gonna manhandle me like a caveman, the least you can do is call me pretty or something. I get enough denigration from you on a daily basis.”

Your hands fall to his chest. You try to make the motions appear absentminded, like you’ve touched him a thousand times, but you’re relishing the feeling. On one hand, you’re tempted to look over your shoulder, curious if the unsub is buying your little show, but on the other, you’d like to pretend that it’s just the two of you here. 

“You poor thing,” Spencer croons, his hand trailing from the back of your neck to cup your jawline. “Fragile ego?”

You laugh like he’s just referenced some kind of inside joke as opposed to insulting you, exaggerating your amusement for anyone who’s watching. You sigh, meeting his eyes as you answer, “Aw, it’s so cute how you think your words have any power over me.”

“If they don’t, what do you need the praise for?” Spencer quickly retorts. 

“Because your job tonight is to be a convincing boyfriend, and right now, you’re not making me wanna date you,” you chide quietly. In a combination of self-indulgence and an attempt to get under Spencer’s skin, you lean closer. With the way Spencer’s thumb has been stroking your cheek, it probably appears to anyone watching that he’s preparing to kiss you. Your eyes flit between his as you tut in mock disappointment, “We might have to break up.”

You don’t miss the strain in his eyes, the way he appears to be refraining from looking at your lips. Then again, he can probably still see them in his periphery. Your own gaze falls to his mouth as the corners of his lips twitch into a small smile. “Are you saying you normally wanna date me?”

“Only in your most unrealistic, most horny dreams, Reid,” you purr, lying straight through your teeth. You sit back in his lap, finding the position quite comfortable. His hand falls away from your face, settling back on your hip. 

Spencer rolls his eyes, though there’s a fondness in the motion that only comes from months of familiar bickering. “So charming.” His voice is flat—unimpressed—but there’s a gravely quality to his low tone that has your stomach pitching as if he had sounded even the slightest bit flirtatious. 

“I know,” you hum. “Must be why I’m the star of all your fantasies.”

Spencer barks out a laugh at that. The sound is sharp, edged with surprise; almost like you’ve struck a chord, appealed to some truth he’s not yet willing to admit. He huffs, “You seem awfully interested in my fantasies for someone who says I’m not their type.”

“I’m just worried about your health,” you assure him, voice dripping with feigned concern. “All that pent-up sexual frustration cannot be good for you.” 

“Neither is being stuck on a case with you,” Spencer quips, though he doesn’t really sound that broken up about it. 

“So you admit that you’re sexually—”

“Just go talk to him,” he interrupts, unwilling to concede your point. 

“Yes, sir,” you oblige, softly patting his chest before you slide off his lap, heels practically sticking to the dirty bar floor. Before Spencer can offer a witty retort, you amend, “Oh, sorry. I’ll try to keep things vanilla for your sensitive soul.” Blowing him a kiss, you mouth, “Later, loser.”

Spencer looks like he might try to fit in a final word, but he clamps his mouth shut and you look away, focusing on the objective ahead of you.

You’ve just emerged from your hotel suite’s bathroom when a firm knock sounds on your door. Instinctively, your gaze shoots to the clock on the nightstand; its bright red digits confirm your suspicions. It’s late, late enough that there’s no reasonable explanation for someone to be bothering you. 

You’re exhausted after this evening’s events. Between the emotional turmoil of being around Spencer—of sitting in his lap, for Christ’s sake—and the stress of closing a case, you’re determined to sleep for at least the next ten hours. It’s no surprise when your voice comes out as a disappointed groan. “Who is it?”

“Open the door and find out, smartass,” Spencer retorts, the amusement in his tone evident even from the other side of the door. 

“Tempting, but I think I’ll just keep pricking your voodoo doll,” you quip. You’re debating just flopping into bed and ignoring him; you’re so exhausted, even incessant knocking probably wouldn’t keep you from a heavy slumber, at this point. Yet, that stupid little sliver of your mind—the horny part, that is—wants to see him. 

“Funny,” he says flatly. 

“Maybe, but the chest pain you’re about to feel isn’t.” You’ve never given much thought to voodoo, but there’s something tantalizing about the thought of stabbing a little needle right through Spencer’s plush heart after his aggravating behavior earlier. You huff to yourself.

“Open the door,” he commands, sounding wholly unimpressed by your witticism. 

Relenting with a dramatic sigh, you pad across the drab carpet and unlock your door. As soon as Spencer catches sight of you, his eyes are trailing down your body, seemingly admiring the oversized t-shirt and baggy shorts currently serving as your pajamas. You wouldn’t think that there would be much of interest to admire, but Spencer’s gaze lingers on your bare legs just the same. 

“It’s late,” you mutter, pretending for all the world like you’re not also drinking in his appearance. Since you last saw him, he’s changed into loungewear of his own—a worn tee and flannel pants. Clearing your suddenly dry throat, you arch a brow and ask, “Shouldn’t you be jerking off?”

Spencer’s gaze snaps back to your face, and he shoots you a withering glare. “You’re exhausting. Don’t you ever get tired of yourself?”

Not dignifying his snippiness with a response, you taunt, “If you came here to steal some panties, I’d rather you just be honest.” You look over your shoulder, gesturing vaguely to your neatly-packed suitcase, propped in the corner of the room. “See, ‘cause I have this lace pair I really don’t—”

“Shut up. For once, stop talking.” Spencer steps into your room, crowding you against the door as it clicks shut behind you. You tilt your head to look up at him as he murmurs, “You think you’re so smart, huh? You think you have me all figured out?” He pauses, and you’re tempted to cut in with a sharp retort, but then he’s diving back into his rant. “Well, you’re a shittier profiler than you think. All this talk about me being a virgin, all this teasing me about being sexually frustrated—” he jabs a finger into his chest, and then redirects his pointing to you, “—when you’re the one who was about to get yourself off thinking about me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you chide, scrunching your nose in distaste as if the thought has never crossed your mind. You fold your arms across your chest, elbow almost poking him in the process with how close he’s hovering. “Why are you here, Reid?”

“I thought I’d offer you some help,” he says simply, not bothering to be remotely subtle as he ogles your chest, crossed arms pushing your breasts together, even under your loose shirt. 

“With what?” you ask, though you’re sure you know what he’s implying. With a mock gasp, you joke, “Oh. Cute. No. I don’t do that kind of charity work.”

Spencer’s eyes drag up the column of your throat, landing back on your face after a tense moment. He shrugs and takes a step back, moving like he’s waiting for you to step away from the door so he can leave. “Suit yourself.”

“You idiot,” you scowl. “You think you can just show up at my door and I’ll drop my pants? You think I’m some kind of slut?”

“No, but I do think you’re desperate,” he replies instantly. 

“Wow,” you scoff. “You sure know how to charm a lady.”

“Look me in the eyes and tell me I’m wrong,” Spencer challenges. You roll your eyes at his self-assured tone, leveling him with an annoyed look. 

“You’re wrong,” you state, heat creeping up your neck at the realization that it’s more difficult to lie to him than usual.

Perhaps you’re just tired of lying to yourself.

The corners of Spencer’s lips twitch into an irritatingly charming smirk. He croons, “That was a good try, but I said my eyes, not my lips.”

“Fuck you,” you hiss.

“Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he replies smoothly. 

“You’re goddamn annoying,” you complain, uncrossing your arms and grabbing the door handle. Admittedly, your heart’s not completely into the notion of kicking him out, but you’ll do it to avoid him having the upper hand. “How about instead of assuming I’m so obsessed with you, you ask yourself this: why would anyone want to be with someone who’s so abrasive, and haughty, and authoritarian—”

“Because you like when I’m authoritarian,” Spencer confidently interrupts. For a moment, he waits for a response, likely expecting you to counter his statement with a petty argument. When you remain silent, glowering at him—though it’s unclear whether you’re more pissed at him or yourself—he sighs and says, “Fine, you don’t wanna admit it? I can go first. I’ve been crazy about you for a long time. The only reason I put up with your ginormous goddamn attitude is because I can’t stop thinking about kissing you to make you shut up.” Your stomach drops at his confession, a flicker of heat sparking in your abdomen. It’s been obvious that the two of you have been dancing around these feelings for some time now, but to hear him say so has your insides twisting with desire. “You think I’m abrasive? Well, I’m not the one constantly degrading you because I’m too much of a coward to admit that I actually like you.”

Damn. It doesn’t necessarily feel good to be called out so explicitly, but he’s not wrong, per se. You have been a bit of a coward, using humor as a defense mechanism when you’ve been sure that Spencer would reject you if you made your interest overt. 

“That’s some grand speech for a hookup,” you mumble, still unwilling to drop your bravado. 

“I don’t just want a hookup, but I’ll settle if that’s what you’re into,” Spencer admits. His face is, shockingly, a mask of cool indifference; while it’s usually so easy to fluster him, to get under his skin, he seems perfectly comfortable right now, like he hasn’t just been utterly vulnerable with you. Oh, how the tables have turned. 

“Isn’t it kind of backwards to fuck and then go out to dinner?” you question pointedly, quirking a brow. 

“I did take you out for drinks earlier,” Spencer responds easily. At this point, you’re still cornered against the door, and you lean against the wood for support. After all, his confession has you slightly winded, and you don’t trust your wobbly legs to keep you upright all on their own. 

“For a job,” you argue.

“Semantics,” he says dismissively.

“I knew you liked me,” you answer, speaking more to yourself than to him. 

“And I knew you were massively overcompensating with all your teasing,” he replies, his unimpressed expression morphing into that familiar, smug countenance. 

“Teasing?” you repeat, brow furrowing as you innocently pout. “I’m not a tease.”

Spencer takes a step closer once more, towering over you. He huffs with amusement, and his breath puffs across your face. Cracking an amused smile, he goads, “Prove it.”

You cock your head. “Aren’t you gonna make me, Spence?”

The bright grin drops off his face as he solemnly responds, “Only if you call me ‘sir’ again.”

Your heart stutters. You have half a mind to laugh, to write off what he’s just said as sarcasm, but something in his dark eyes gives you pause. “Oh,” you gasp, “are you serious?”

He breaks character, devolving into a low chuckle. “Fuck no.”

Without further ado, his hands are cupping your jaw, and he’s tilting your face toward his. Your arms have been hanging limply at your sides since you uncrossed them, but they instinctively loop over his shoulders as he pulls you into a deep kiss. His movements are fiery and tender all at once, like he’s been fantasizing about this moment for far too long, but doesn’t want to rush things. His lips insistently press against yours, mouth moving in an expert rhythm. 

His fingers trail your throat, falling to the nape of your neck as he pulls you impossibly closer. His thumbs are pressed against your pulse point, and you’re vaguely aware that he knows how rapidly your heart is racing—how affected you are by his touch. The thought should embarrass you, but you’re too delighted by the feel of his body molding to the contours of your own to think twice about it. 

While he had initially inched you closer to him, he’s now backing you against the door, seeking leverage as he continues to ravish you. Before you hit the wood, one of his hands tangles in your hair, simultaneously protecting your head from a blow while he holds you in place. The duality of his intentions—the combined need to protect you and consume you—doesn’t go unnoticed as you continue to reciprocate his kiss. 

Eventually, Spencer’s lips part from yours, and a breathy sigh escapes your lips before you can contain it. As he works to catch his own breath, he mutters, “You know, there’s something you said earlier that I can’t stop thinking about.”

“I know, I’m hilarious,” you smirk, somehow able to feign confidence while your head is spinning, dizzy with the thought of surrendering control to him. “What in particular amused you?”

“How wrong you are about me,” he answers, busying himself with peppering kisses across your jaw and down your neck. Between pecks, he clarifies, “How you think I’m… vanilla?”

“You didn’t come here to ask me to join some sort of BDSM cult, did you?” you attempt to tease, but your voice comes out breathy and very blatantly aroused.

“No, nothing like that,” he replies, huffing against your throat. Lifting his head to shoot you an amused glance, he teases, “Why? Would that interest you?”

“That’s a good question,” you shamelessly admit, unable to deny your fascination with the idea. 

“Huh,” Spencer hums, ducking his head again to continue laving at the junction of your neck and shoulder. He starts to lightly suck at the sensitive skin, and the pleasurable sting is enough to make you gasp, your grip tightening on his shoulders. 

“Is Twenty Questions your idea of foreplay or something?” you joke half-heartedly, cheeks burning as your arousal builds. With a mildly embarrassing whine in your tone, you complain, “I thought you said you wanted to help.”

“Oh, I do,” Spencer promises, lifting his head to assess you through half-lidded eyes. “I was just curious.” His gaze falls to your shirt, the material practically swallowing you. He drags a finger across the embroidery right above your sternum, smiling delightedly to himself. “This is cute.”

“I feel like you’re stalling. Trying to prepare a good line, are we?” you taunt, though your chest is rapidly rising and falling beneath his touch. You’re not fooling anyone, and you know it, but you’re stubborn as all hell. 

“Not at all,” Spencer denies with a minute shake of his head. His curls flop around, and you’re struck with an overwhelming temptation to run a hand through them. At the rate things are going, though, you’re guessing you have a good chance of doing so by the time the night’s over. “It looks good on you. Of course, it would look better on the floor, though.”

“There it is,” you say flatly, pretending like his words don’t have you wanting to strip naked right then and there. Spencer hums knowingly, stepping away from you. Immediately, you crave his proximity, missing the warmth of his body against yours. 

He nods over his shoulder, gesturing to your bed. “Go sit down.”

Your mind fumbles to produce a witty response. You should tell him not to boss you around, that you won’t listen to any man, that he can go to hell, but… 

Your feet carry you across the room, and you’re plopping down on the edge of the bed. You watch him expectantly; he hovers by the door for a mere second before following you, stopping right in front of you. Your knees are tightly pressed together, and your hands are clasped in your lap as you look up at him. The air feels dense with tension. Despite having already kissed him, you want so much more, that the desire threatens to suffocate you. 

“I don’t want to fuck you,” Spencer murmurs, and you practically hear a record scratch echo through the room. Your immense disappointment must show on your face, because he quickly amends, “I don’t want to fuck you tonight. But I do want to make you feel good.”

One of his hands falls to your knee, gently coaxing your legs apart. He steps closer, slotting himself between your legs. You swallow thickly as you silently watch him, as his slender fingers drag up your barely-covered thighs and begin fiddling with the hem of your shirt. 

“I’m gonna take this off now,” he declares in a low voice. Despite his commanding tone, his brows lift in a concerned expression, seeking your agreement. “Okay?”

Your heart lurches at the realization that you’re about to be half-naked in front of him, yet the thought is exceedingly exhilarating. You feel kind of pathetic for bowing to his whims so easily, but his promise has you slowly nodding your consent.

He lifts your shirt, slowly revealing your bare skin. You’re so absurdly turned on by this entire ordeal that even the tiniest shift of fabric against your chest has your nipples hardening. Naturally, Spencer’s gaze flits to your breasts, his pupils blowing wide at the sight. 

Then, he kneels between your legs, his hands settling on your waist. More specifically, the waistband of your shorts. You sit back on the heels of your palms, lifting your hips for him before he even has to ask—or tell. While he had removed your shirt with a languid fluidity, he wastes no time tugging both your shorts and your underwear down your legs.

Your cheeks flush with heat once you’re bare before him. He takes a generous moment to stare at your glistening folds before dragging his attention back to your face. Seeing your evident embarrassment, he leans forward, pressing a gentle kiss to the inside of one thigh. The sensitive skin prickles under his touch. 

His strong hands grip your hips, digging into the flesh as he guides you closer to the edge of the mattress. Once he’s satisfied with your position, he returns his focus back to the junction of your thighs. 

He inches closer, nipping at the skin just beside your core. You jump at the sensation, but quickly relax as he soothes the spot with his tongue. He seems like he’s debating teasing you further, but he takes one look at your glistening folds, and he’s lapping at your arousal, dragging his tongue from your entrance to your clit in one smooth motion. You jolt, a hand instinctively clutching his hair for leverage as he starts to devour you. 

His tongue swirls your clit, a light stimulation that sends electricity coursing through your abdomen. As a pleasured sigh escapes you, Spencer encircles your clit with his mouth, sucking on the sensitive bud. 

His hands, which had been resting on your hips, keeping your legs spread for him, start to wander. One hand travels up your waist, cupping your tit and squeezing gently. You think you may come just from his ministrations thus far, but then his other hand snakes between your legs, and your heart skips a beat. 

Collecting your arousal on his fingers, he prods at your entrance. It doesn’t take much effort to slip one digit into your sopping pussy; it quickly sinks inside of you, and you moan at the drag of his finger inside of you. He hums his approval against your clit, and the vibration only furthers your pleasure.

He crooks his finger against a spongy spot deep within you at the same time as his other hand toys with your nipple, the pinch going straight to your core. You feel yourself growing wetter around Spencer’s finger, and he must notice, too, because he carefully inches another one inside of you. While his fingers are slim, they’re still thicker than yours, and there’s a dull ache as he stretches you open. You try not to think about how many times he must have done this with other women in order to know just how long to give you to adjust to the feeling. After a short time, he crooks his fingers and begins pumping them in and out of your pussy, hand moving in time with his mouth.

You mewl, a pathetic little whimper that has him huffing against your core. You would be indignant at his response if you weren’t so fucking lost in arousal right now. Your thighs begin to tremble as he continues to lick and suck and fuck you open; his hand that had been fondling your breast moves to grip your thigh, holding you in place.

You moan, your breaths devolving into shaky little pants. You’re helplessly gasping and whining as Spencer expertly works you toward your climax. 

“Spence, fuck—” you cry, stomach tightening as you race toward release. He’s unrelenting, mouth practically attached to your pussy.

Like a taut rubber band, the pressure in your core threatens to snap. You’re so close that tears are starting to burn in your eyes as you approach that intense pleasure. Your body tingles with the anticipation of it, but right when you feel yourself creeping over the edge, Spencer pulls back. 

Cool air hits your core like a bucket of water dousing an inferno. Your hazy eyes snap to his as he retracts his fingers from inside of you. 

“N-no,” you whine, voice no more than a breath.

He sits back on his heels before rising from the floor, looking down at you with a devious glint in his eyes. Your mind runs through a list of the most insulting expletives you can conjure, and you’re about to unleash a snappy complaint when you stop yourself.

As promised, he had made you feel good—better than good. Fucking incredible. You’ll be damned if you ruin this for yourself by telling him off. You can handle a little bit of edging. It’s not ideal, but you can play this game how he clearly wants you to. 

“P-please,” you beg. 

“Aw, you sound so sweet,” Spencer coos, settling onto the mattress. You glower at his mocking tone, but your face is bright red with a combination of arousal and… something at his demeaning statement. He cracks a cheeky grin, tapping the tip of your nose as he says, “Don’t be embarrassed, baby. Please what?”

You grit your teeth, admitting, “I want… more.”

“Yeah?” he asks. Surely, he’s just feeling cocky and wants to hear once more how badly you want him. Asshole.

“Mhm,” you nod weakly. 

Spencer leans toward you, brushing a sweaty strand of hair away from your ear as he murmurs, “Then stand up for me.”

Your brow furrows in confusion at his command. You’re not sure what to expect next, but you’re far too invested in the situation to refuse. You oblige, shakily rising from your seat and angling your body toward him, awaiting further instruction.

Spencer pats his clothed thigh and purrs, “Sit right here.”

You blink harshly, wondering what sort of gratification he would possibly get from you doing so. You’re positively soaked, and you would only ruin his pants. You try to vocalize this thought, yet all that comes out is a soft, “But…”

“What? You don’t wanna make a mess?” he croons, clearly reveling in your suddenly shy demeanor. You jerkily shake your head, but your gaze darts to his lap, to his spread legs. He waits until your focus returns to his face before asking, “Even if I want you to?”

You consider this for a moment. It would be super hot. “Well…”

“Oh, come on,” he coaxes. “Be good.”

You had told him earlier tonight that you didn’t like constantly being teased by him, but there’s something so attractive about his mock praise in this context that has you wanting to do whatever he asks. So, after a minuscule internal debate, you step toward him, sinking onto his thigh. His hands immediately fall to your hips, holding you in place as you straddle his leg.

He’s gotten you so damn worked up that the mere feeling of his flannel pants pressing against your clit has you holding back a shiver. You’re desperate for friction, but you’re well aware that doing this means that things will change between you—more than they already have, that is—and that you can never go back. 

“Atta girl,” Spencer praises, thumbs brushing against your bare hips. His fingers are dangerously close to kneading your ass, and you would almost prefer if he would start guiding your movements. Yet, he’s looking at you expectantly, waiting for you to make a move. “What?”

“‘S embarrassing,” you complain in a small whisper, unable to stop a dismayed pout from crossing your face. He grins in response, clearly enjoying finally having reduced you from a confident brat to a submissive little lamb.

“Aw, don’t be embarrassed,” he tuts. “You wanna come, don’t you?”

“Mhm,” you hum reluctantly.

“Pretty girl, all you have to do is roll your hips,” he says, patting them in encouragement. As desperate as you are to feel some release, there’s something vaguely humiliating about getting yourself off in front of him. Your embarrassment is only heightened when he teasingly instructs, “C’mon, put on a little show for me.”

You scowl at him, narrowing your eyes at the humorous lilt in his voice. To spite him—or perhaps to tease yourself—you shift forward slightly, dragging your core along his thigh. You had meant the motion to be a stubborn display, to appear like you’re not as helplessly interested in him as you are, but the friction is delicious, and the tension in your body starts to melt away.

“That’s it. Just like that,” Spencer murmurs, gripping your hips tighter as you resign yourself to grinding against his leg. “That feel good?”

“Mhm,” you confirm, quickly losing yourself in the sensation of rocking against him. Once more, your clit catches on the fabric of his pants, and you bite your lip to suppress a satisfied groan.

“You’re so cute, getting all worked up like this,” he praises, and his words resonate deep in your stomach, adding to the building tension there. 

He had brought you so close to orgasm moments ago that it’s not long at all before you’re rutting in his lap with fervor, abdomen tightly coiled with your impending climax. Once more, little whimpers and moans tumble from your lips, and their increased volume indicates that you’re close to coming.

“Stop,” Spencer commands, his fingers digging into your hips as he holds you in place. He’s not gripping you tight enough to truly prevent you from continuing to grind on him, but that submissive part of your brain obediently freezes.

“No, Spence, please—” you whine.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he promises, lifting one hand to card his fingers through your damp hair. He meets your gaze with dark, lust-filled eyes. “Just for a second, alright?”

“Mm, wanna…” you whimper. 

“I know, baby. I know,” he coos, smoothing your tousled hair. 

“Please, can I…?” you plead. 

“You gonna make yourself come all over my thigh?” he asks, a satisfied smirk tugging at his lips. You hang your head, panting at the sight of his clothed erection just inches away from the mess you’ve made on his thigh.

“Mhm,” you hum.

“Go ahead,” he permits, loosening his hold on your hips just enough so that you can move freely again. 

“Thank you…” you breathe, instantly returning to your desperate pace. As you continue to rut against him, dragging your pussy along his thigh, he grips your neck, pulling you into a searing kiss. His tongue delves into your mouth, and you can taste your arousal on his lips.

You’re so worked up, you think you may sob as your orgasm begins to wash over you in an all-consuming wave. You unseal your lips from his, huffing against his mouth, “God, ‘m gonna… ah….”

“I got you,” he assures you. “Go ahead, baby.”

“Mm… ah…” you moan, riding his thigh for all you’re worth. Mercifully, you finally come, and the sensation causes your vision to dance with dark spots and your body to erupt in a pleasant tingle. You yelp, biting your lip to hold back a scream. All of Spencer’s teasing has only ensured that when you finally reach the precipice, you have the most intense orgasm of your life. 

Your hips still to a halt as you tremble on top of him. You’re left feeling absolutely boneless, a satisfying warmth blooming in your abdomen. As you puff and gasp for air, Spencer peppers your face with tender kisses.

“So good,” he murmurs. “You’re so good.”

For a moment, you allow yourself to be the recipient of his unadulterated affection. Once the initial wave of bliss passes, however, the reality of the situation comes crashing down on you, and you bury your face in your hands. 

“Oh God,” you groan. “Oh my God, that was so embarrassing.”

“If by ‘embarrassing’, you mean ridiculously fucking hot,” Spencer quips. When a moment passes and you still haven’t met his eyes, he starts pressing a kiss to each knuckle on your fingers. His gentle touch is enough to have you lowering your hands and glancing at him with a worried look.

“There was one thing you were right about earlier, by the way,” he notes.

“Yeah?” you ask nervously. “What’s that?”

“This is like my horny dreams,” he replies lightheartedly, though his expression suggests that he is anything but joking. 

You huff, smiling sheepishly as you mutter, “Fuck off.”

“What?” he squawks, slapping a hand to his chest in an offended gesture. “I mean, sure, I can go handle this myself, but I’d much rather stay.” His gaze falls to the tent in his pants, and then he looks up at you through his lashes, a hopeful sparkle in his eyes. 

“You’re not invited,” you decree, clambering off his lap and standing up.

“Aw. Shame,” he tuts, clearly unconvinced. Then, seeking clarification, he meekly asks, “Really?”

Echoing his words from earlier, you declare, “Fuck no,” before mimicking his actions and moving to kneel before him.

The two of you have quite the night ahead of you, but you’re going to make the most of it. After all, it’s been a long time coming.

taglist: @dc-reid-heliotrope @theglitchywriterboi @lotsie2234 @opaliite13 @reidswife-x @/rairaine @lovergirliris @rottenstyx @unalivebread @gaslysgirly @anyasthoughts @sp1derst0rrr @baelorandmaekarinparis

[xxmooxmooxx]

my favorite freak :¨ ·.· ¨:

`· . 𐙚

eddie munson x fem plus size oc

enemies to lovers (?)

⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆ ⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆ ⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆

warnings: the oc Jasper is plus size, mexican, and pansexual. so naturally this fanfic contains fatphobic (possibly triggering) words, racial slurs for the mexican/hispanic community and the lgbtqia community. it will also contain smut at some point haven’t gotten that far yet. i started this fanfic a few years ago and came across it last night. i think it’s one of the few things i've written in the past that doesn’t make me cringe and that id read myself today so. i really hope y'all enjoy it <3

chapter one: spilled eggs

Jaspers's POV~~ 

    "SHIT SHIT SHIT!!" Murray screamed, following behind a loud crash, resulting in me, Jasper, waking up from a dead sleep on the living room couch.

"What is going on? What the hell broke, Murray?" I asked very very confused. Sitting up, I scanned the house trying to figure out what my Uncle broke this time. Finally, I realized the noise was coming from the kitchen.

"NOTHING! NOTHING!" Murray yelled overwhelmed and stressed out. I get up off the couch giggling in response as I walk over to the kitchen. As I walk in, I see Murray on the floor cleaning up raw eggs that dropped along with the frying pan they were in. My uncle started apologizing as I kneeled to help clean up the mess. "I'm sorry for yelling, Jas. I was just trying to do something nice for us because God knows we need it. But as you can see I fucked up and broke all our eggs."

    Despite his strong dislike of children, Murray let me move in with him during my junior year of high school. I know how difficult the transition was for him but he dealt with it anyways. He's been a pretty good parental figure these past three years… despite all the bullshit they've been through. 

    "It's okay, Tio," I said attempting to clean up some egg. "It's the thought that counts anyways." They both laughed and made a few sarcastic comments while finishing up cleaning. "How about we go to the diner for breakfast? My treat!" I offered my Tio. "That sounds perfect," Murray said with a sigh of relief.

"I gotta run some errands afterward, so I'm gonna take my car and meet you there." He finished.

"Sounds good to me!" I replied before heading to my room to get ready. 

--at the diner--

    "Sooooo, niece of mine…" Murray started saying before taking a bite of his omelet. "Anything new going on with you? Any new shows coming up you're working on? or planning on seeing?" He finished.

"Well!! I think Robin and I are gonna go see a midnight showing of Rocky Horror in Indianapolis next month!" I responded excitedly with a mouth full of blueberry pancakes.

"Ohhh! What's that about??" Murray asked, physically leaning more into the conversation. "Oh. Um. Nothing. Kinda boring to be honest.." I respond quickly. Definitely not gonna tell my Tio I plan on watching an entire musical about having losing your virginity. He takes a sip of his coffee and simply replied with a

"mhmmmm. Anyways, how are Robin and Steve?" Quickly changing the subject.

"They are gooood! We are gonna have a movie night at Steve's tonight." I answer happily. 

    Steve and Robin are my best friends. Kinda crazy to be honest. I would've never in a million years thought that Robin and I would be as close to Steve as we are. I hated him in high school. A prick. Not as big of one as the crusty ass fuckers he use to hang out with are though. They use to call me all the slurs in the book. Steve would just sit and watch. Which he still apologizes for relentlessly to this day. On the other hand, Robin have been friends since our meeting. Steve and I have been friendly ever since I got involved with all the Eleven and Upside Down stuff our senior year. He was always caught up on Nancy to pay much attention to anything else. The three of us didn't get close until we started working at scoops ahoy and almost got killed by the Mind Flayer and Russians. Now not only do the three of us work together at family video we hangout on a daily bases. 

     I got snapped out of my thoughts by the diner door quickly opening and a group of boys wearing matching shirts walking in. I immediately recognize my three boys: Dustin, Lucas, and Mike. When they were in middle school I use to make costumes for their d&d campaigns. I even played with them a few times. I'm closest to Dustin. He tends to bottle his feelings up because he doesn't want anyone worrying about him on top of everything else we've been through. I'm the same way but I have Robin. Dustin doesn't wanna talk to any of the boys or his mom about his feelings. Thankfully, he has been very open and comfortable with me recently so I've been able to be there for him. Jonathan Byers and I use to be really close so Will was like my own little brother. I worry about him. I hope he is doing good out in California. I then recognize who they are with. As the group of boys sits down our eyes meet. He studies me for a second then sends me a quick grin and wink. I quickly snap my head back towards Murray. 

    "Tio…?" 

    "Yes..?"

    "He's here." 

    "Which he? THE he?" 

    "Yes, THE he, Murray!" I whisper yelled to my uncle across the table. His eyes go big as a stupid grin widens across his face. I immediately lean back in the booth to try and compose myself.

    "HEY!!" Two voices greet in unison as they slide into the booth my uncle and I are in. Robin is next to Murray and Steve is next to me.

"Annnnd that's my cue to leave," Murray said signaling Robin to get out of the booth so he can leave. Steve and Robin look at him worried they interrupted something. "It's okay. I was about to head out anyways." Murray responded before he started walking towards the door. "You two might wanna talk her off the ledge." He finished.

"See you later, Murray!" I shouted to him. He smiled at me before walking out.

    "Soo…" Robin started as she slide back into the booth. "Are you gonna tell me and tweedle dee here why you're basically in the fetal position right now?"

"Yeah, I haven't seen you like this in a while." Steve states putting a hand on my shoulder.

I just sat there, shifting looks between the two. I leaned in and whispered to them "Munson is here." Steve and Robin immediately start scanning the room looking for Eddie Munson. Edward Munson. I have been in love with him since I first saw him my first year here in Hawkins. 

~flash back~

    Jonathan Byers and I are at my locker talking about some cool pictures Jon had recently taken. I tried desperately to focus on my friend talking about his passion but got distracted.     

   "- Jas? Jas? What are you looking at" Jonathan asks as he follows my gaze. His eyes land on Eddie Munson.

"I'm so sorry, Jon.. but who is that?" I ask practically drooling over the beautiful curly-headed boy.

"That my friend, is Eddie Munson. He seems pretty cool to me but he gets made fun of a lot."  Jonathan answers.

"How come?" I ask breaking my gaze to look at Jon.

"He listens to loud music, smokes weed, plays d&d, dresses in dark clothes.. what else do you need to get made fun of in high school?" He answers looking back at Eddie and then back at me "You should talk to him."

"What?? Why???" I whisper yelled.

"I think you two might get along. You seem to have similar interests." He encouraged. Before I could protest, we heard a body slam into the lockers. 

    Let me just start by saying I've been bullied my whole life. One thing I refuse to watch or put up with is people getting bullied. So.. when Jonathan and I look over to see some douchebag basketball player named Jack, shoving this Eddie guy into a locker… I'm already ready to do something about it.

"Where do you think you're going freak?" Jack spits at Eddie. I unconsciously start walking slowly toward the two.

"On my way to see your mom actually." Eddie responds in a snarky tone with a grin. I get closer. His voice. His smile. No. Wrong time and place, Jas. Focus.

"Oh, you little shit." Jack responds raising his fist about to hit Eddie. Absolutely not.

"hey, back off, asshole." I say calmly as I shove him slightly away from Eddie. Jack looks surprised and thrown off. He quickly composes himself as he steps towards me and says

"Oh yeah? The b*aner protecting the freak?"

"Woah Woah dude, calm the fuck down," Eddie spoke up trying to step between us.

"Jas, come on. Let it go." Jonathan says holding my arm trying to gently pull me away.

"Oh!! So the w*t b*ck is also a whore huh? The freak AND the perv-" Before Jack could finish his sentence, a deafening slap was heard throughout the busy hallway. I stand there angrily death-staring jack as he reaches his hand to his now red cheek. "Did you just smack me…?" Jack asks in shock.

Simultaneously Jonathan says in a high-pitched voice "No, no, no, no, she didn't." Eddie says smiling "Hell yes, she did." immediately looking at each other.

Jack starts balling up his fist and begins to say. "You fat bitc-" before he felt a strong hand on his shoulder.

The four high schoolers look up to see Principle Higgins calmly saying "Ms. Bauman, Mr. Munson, and Mr. Byers. My office. Now." 

    Jonathan is currently getting questioned about what happened while Eddie and I sit in the hallway waiting for our turns.

"You know," Eddie started saying in a low voice. "I definitely could have handled that myself." He leans his head closer to mine so I could hear him. It didn't come off rude but more concerned.

"I don't doubt that but I feel like this way was a little more fun. Don't you think?" I ask halfway joking.

He gives me a soft short laugh. "I guess you're right. My name is Eddie." He offers his hand for me to shake.

"My name is Jasper," I say taking his offer with a smile. 

"I haven't seen you before, where are you from?" 

"Yeah, I just moved here last week. I'm from Texas."  

"Interesting, what made your family leave and come to the 'amazing' town of Hawkins?"

"No family, just me. I came up here to live with my uncle." 

"I don't wanna overstep… but are your parents… I mean did they.."

"No no no!" I stare at my hands in my lap. "They are alive. It was just better for me this way." 

    He was about to say something. I felt him breathe next to me. Before a word could come out of his mouth, Jonathan walks out of Higgins's office. He put his hand on my shoulder and said he would see me after class. "Ms. Bauman." Higgins says holding the door open for me to walk in. I stand up and turn to Eddie with a soft smile before walking in. 

    Higgins goes on and on about how just because I'm upset doesn't mean I can hit people. I of course get suspended and Jack gets no consequences. He explained that Jonathan was a good friend for trying to talk me down and pull me away and that I should stay away from Eddie because he is a bad influence. Eddie is not getting in any trouble either. Am I upset I got in trouble? no. I'm I fuming because Jack gets away with what he said to not only me but Eddie? abso-fucking-lutely. I shouldn't even bother questioning Higgins but I did. I immediately get shut down and get called disrespectful. After he finishes, I grab my stuff and storm out of his office, leaving Eddie in the hallway. I finally make it out of the school. Walking will help calm me down. Even though Murray's house is probably an hour and a half walk. I'll be fine.

    "Jasper!" I hear yelled at me from behind. I turn around to see Eddie running towards me. I stop. Why did he come after me? I just met this guy and I'm absolutely furious right now. I don't wanna be around anyone when I'm mad especially not the only guy I've found attractive since I've moved here. 

   "Jasper.. Wha- what happened? Wait.. are you crying? W-why are you crying?" He asks a little out of breath. I'm crying?? I reach up to feel my face. shit. I'm crying. I quickly wipe off the tears on my face and turn around to start walking again.

"I'm just mad," I answer. He walks with me. Not saying anything. Just comfortable silence.

"Did you get suspended?" He asks after a few moments.

"Yup. I did. Douche bag did not get in any kinda trouble." I answer still upset. Another moment of silence. "Why did you follow me out?" I ask stopping to look at him. His eyes. His eyes are so beautiful.

"I don't know, um. I wanted to see if you're okay." He looked me in the eyes. I'm probably so red. I break eye contact. "Where are you heading?" He asks still looking down at me.

"Home. My uncle lives over on the other side of town. A little passed the trailer park." I look back up at him.

"Ohh I live in that trailer park. Want a ride?" He asked me if I want to ride with him. I hardly know this man. He could be a serial killer for all I know but honestly. I don't mind not only is it hot outside but COME ON! No way I can say no to those eyes. Wait. Why is he not in class? 

"Eddie, do you not have a class you should be in right now?"

"Listen, I skip most of the time anyways, but today!! I have a good reason. You definitely shouldn't have gotten in trouble let alone the only one getting in trouble. Call it a protest of sorts." He answers with a grin. I roll my eyes. He softly grabs my arm "Come on, I don't bite. Unless you ask of course." He sends a wink my way. I'm absolutely melting. 

    The car ride was so nice. Us just talking about music, how much we hate high school, and clothes! I hate that Jonathan was right. Eddie is a sweet and honestly hilarious guy. We pull up to Murray's house and as I start getting my things together I hear Eddie's door open and shut. I see him jog over to my side of the car and open the door for me. I grab my bag and thank him

"Wow, who knew how much of a gentleman Eddie Munson is." He laughs as I step out of the car and look up at him "Thank you." I say.

"Pffff," He says closing the door. "Thank you for sticking up for me. That uh doesn't happen often." We walk towards my door.

"I'm glad I could be one of the few," I say with a smile turning towards him. Before anything else could be said, Murray yells at me through the speaker.

"Jasper. Why are you not at school?" Eddie and I physically jump in surprise.

"You scared the shit out of me," I say grabbing my chest. I forgot about the camera. "Um.. I'll talk to you about it when you let me inside!!" I say overly excited looking into the camera. The door unlocks and opens to reveal my uncle. I leave Eddie's side and turn to look at him and silently thank him one more time before Murray shuts the door. 

    Eddie and I hardly ever spoke after that. He would ignore my existence or just be straight-up rude when he saw me. I knew how things like this goes. He's embarrassed of me. I thought maybe he out of every other guy would understand. When we started having more classes together my senior year and his second senior year, I couldn't help but resent him. I understand I'm not everyone's type, But I at least thought after that day we would be acquaintances. But nothing. I wanted to be his friend so badly, but he just wouldn't let me. Not only that. I take a suspension for standing up for him and he treats me like shit? How embarrassing. You wont catch me doing shit for a guy again. Especially him.

~end of flash back~

   "Okay can we please go somewhere else?" I say slouching into my seat.

   "But Jas!!! I don't know if you know this or not but you're hot and this is the first time he has seen you in like a year! I think it's time you start your villain arc and show him how hot you are now and how he missed his chance!" Robin starts explaining. I grow embarrassed and cover my now red face.

  "Or! Hear me out. Let's not even entertain him. He doesn't even deserve that for how he treated you after what you did for him. It's bullshit. You deserve better than that, Jas." Steve ranted. 

   "OOOOO! Let's invite him to our movie night and YOU Steve can pretend to be into Jas and get E man all jealous!" Robin said completely ignoring poor Steve. 

   "Jesus Christ, I wouldn't mind that, if it was literally anyone else. He doesn't deserve the attention." Steve signed. "Shit. Heads up. Dustin and the freak are walking over here." 

   "what. the. fawk." I whisper before I finally uncover my face.

   "Heyyy, guysss!" Dustin greets excitedly as he and Eddie approach our booth. 

   "Heeeeeyyyy, Dussstiiiinnnn…" We all respond in unison

   "Soooo…. I was wondering if my good buddy here, Eddie, could join us for movie night tonight?" Dustin asks with puppy dog eyes as Eddie stand, surprisingly quiet, behind him. 

   "Woah, woah, woah!" Steve started. Shit Steve please don't start shit with Eddie right now. "Who invited youuuu, Henderson?" Steve said with a poke to Dustins shoulder

   "myself" 

   "and how did you even know we were planning a movie night tonight?"

   "Robin"

Steve snaps his neck toward Robin. She's grinning like a maniac, I'm internally flipping out looking everywhere except Eddie, Eddie is looking at the ground trying not to laugh, and Dustin is giving Steve puppy dog eyes. 

  Steve looks at me and without saying a word, asking me what to do. I nod signaling him that he can say yes. He turns back to Dustin and lets out a big sign before finally giving Dustin his answer, "Fine."

  "THANK YOU STEVE!" Dustin yells as he lunges at Steve to hug him. "What are we watching?" Eddie asks, finally speaking up. 

   "Well, we were thinking Rocky Horror but, since Dustin is now coming, thats a no go."  I answer, finally gaining the confidence to look at him.

   "What? Why??" Dustin asks 

   "Uh, its literally all about sex, Dustin. No way. Absolutely not." Robin pitches in. 

   "Literally you BOTH are the biggest virgins ever. Why does that matter?? Steve?!"  Dustin response obviously disappointed. Robin and i look at eachother and roll our eyes. "I wanna see it!!" 

   "Sorry, Buddy, I'm out numbered here." Steve shrugs.

   "Rude." Dustin scoffs.

   "Steve and I will figure out what movie to watch while you guys are at school." I state taking a glance at everyone.

 "Okayyy. Cool. Cool. Cool." Dustin replied backing up a bit patting his pockets.

   AWKWARD SILENCE.

  "WOW! Look at the time! We should really start heading to school!" Robin exclaims breaking the silence. Thank God.

   "Yup, let's go." Steve response sliding out of the booth. 

  Dustin, Robin, ad Steve start having a conversation after all of us stand up, I'm not aware of because I've been zoned out trying to dissociate from my body, when:

   "You seem quiet..?" Eddie questions while stepping up next to me. 

   "Yeah, well that's what happens when you're in a situation you don't wanna be in."

   "Ouch, I though you would be happy to see me, Jas."

   "And what makes you think that?" I say, turning to face him, gaining my confidence back.

   "Just a hunch.." He replied facing me smirking.

   "Well then, maybe you should get your 'hunch' checked out, because it's wrong." I say before walking towards Steve. I hate his stupid eyes. I hate his stupid grin. I hate that he knows exactly how to piss me off. I hate him.  

   "I'll see you at work, Steve." I say patting Steves shoulder on my way out the dinner. 

   After a long seven hour shift, Steve and I head to his house to set up for the movie night.

"So.. Living Room again?" Steve asks as we walk into his parents expensive home. 

 "Yes pleaseeee!" I answer as I set my bag on the couch.

 "What's wrong with my bedroom?" He questions walking up behind me.

   "Steve Harrington, I absolutely adore you. But I absolutely despise your awful matching wallpaper and curtains." I respond laughing as I turn to face him. 

   "Mhmmm.." He started before turning to head to the kitchen. "You weren't complaining when I kissed you last August.." I sigh in response. 

   Don't worry. Harrington and I are not a thing. Here's what happened:

   It was August of 1985, after the whole mall, russians, mind flayer shit happened. It was the first time Steve and I hung out with out my sweet babygirl, Robin. She was in bed with a fever. Steve and I stopped by to take her some soup and afterwards we decided to go and hangout at Steves place for a bit. We drank a bit and the two of us opened up to each other about our personal lives. For hours, we talked about our awful, toxic parents to the people we were in love with. I get why Steve hates Eddie. It's the same reason I hate Nancy. They hurt us. I ended up telling Steve that I hadn't had my first kiss yet. 

   "I could be your first kiss..?"He said smiling and giggling like a child.

   "I'm honored Harrington, but I don't want my first kiss to be completely meaningless." I chuckled. 

"It wont be!" He thought for a moment. "It can be a promise to each other." 

   "And what promise would that be, Steve?" 

   " Hmmmm.." He thought for another moment. "How about, If we are both still single by 27, you and I will get married??"

   I laughed again. Never, in a million years, would I have pictured myself sitting in Steve Harringtons bed, planning our wedding, about to kiss. 

  "I'm serious!!" He said laughing with me.

  "I know you are, Steve." I respond, out of breath putting my hand on his shoulder. "You know what.."

   "What?" 

  "I kinda like that Idea." 

   "I'm so glad!"" He says clapping then gets 'serious' "Now.. to seal the deal."

   "Let's seal the deal then, Harrington." 

  And then we kissed. Made out? I don't know just a nice, meaningful, best friend smooch.

   "I think I was too busy trying to contain my panic attack to notice your ugly ass wallpaper, bestie." I said skipping over to him in the kitchen getting ready to prep some snacks. 

  He laughed. "Yeah, I guess that's true. So.." He said sliding over to me leaning on the counter. "How do you feel about Munson coming over?" 

   "He's not coming." I answered looking down at my feet.

┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ˚★⋆｡˚ ⋆ ┊ ┊ ┊ ⋆ ┊ ┊ ★⋆ ┊ ◦ ★⋆ ┊ . ˚ ˚★

There we go!!!!! first chapter done! pls pls pls gimme some feed back! how do we like the dynamic? do we like Jasper? I changed a few things since i wrote this a few years ago so i really hope yall are into it! this fanfic is my baby <33

[xxmooxmooxx]

rereading my fics… this NEEDS more hype pls. i wrote this summer of 2022… PEAK eddie season.

[selenevesper]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐒 𝐖𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐃𝐄 (𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐒):

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄: 𝐉𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: +18 MDNI, HEAVY DARK CONTENT! Graphic violence and extreme gore, torture and prolonged physical abuse, blood, mutilation, bodily harm, descriptions of dismembered bodies, heavy description of torture, wounds, knives, kidnapping, homophobia, humiliation. Dead Dove, Do Not Eat.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 6,4K

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: The quiet town of Hawkins, Indiana has been ravaged by unexplained and sudden murders, bringing terror and panic to the population. Five friends find themselves cornered by a mysterious and sadistic masked figure and forced to reveal their darkest secrets. In a sadistic game, the winner is not the one who comes out alive.

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: You can tell that I love a dark fic haha, hope you guys like this one! TAGLIST IS OPEN!

𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄'𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

Your head throbbed with a dull, lingering pain, each pulse echoing the beat of your heart. A viscous warmth trickled down the left side of your head, likely the cause of the fog and your struggle to think.

With a tense groan, unable to hide the pain, you drew in a deep breath and mustered the courage to open your eyes. Your eyelids trembled as shafts of light pierced your retinas like knives driving into the base of your skull and into your temples. Blinking against the brightness, trying to ease the surge of pain, your gaze swept across the room you were in, only to find it completely unfamiliar.

It looked like an abandoned house, the walls stained with mold and blotches that seemed older than time, the paint peeling away, and cobwebs adorning a massive portion of the place with an overwhelming sense of impending doom.

Your awareness gradually returned, and only then did you realize you couldn’t move. Looking down, you saw your limbs tightly bound to a chair, making any attempt to escape impossible, just like the gag in your mouth, which you hadn’t even noticed before in your lethargic state.

Your eyes, already burning with tears on the verge of falling, scanned your surroundings. You spotted Jason, Tommy, Carol, and Tammy in the same condition as you — bound and helpless. The only difference was that they hadn’t yet awakened to realize the nightmare they were trapped in.

You struggled against the restraints, thrashing until they loosened just enough to offer a slim chance of escape. Your jaw opened and clenched repeatedly, trying to free your mouth. Then suddenly, a shiver, a gut-deep feeling of being watched made you freeze, eyes wide in terror. Sweat trickled down your forehead as you began to hyperventilate, panic surging through you.

A movement in the corner of your eye made you turn your head, and there they were. Five figures stood motionless in the darkest corner of the room, each draped in black robes and wearing masks that concealed their faces and emotions.

Each mask resembled a horror movie villain: Jason, Freddy Krueger, Jigsaw, Michael Myers, and Ghostface, the last one radiating a particularly sinister and imposing aura. The hollow eyes of the mask seemed to pierce into your deepest thoughts, and its twisted mouth appeared to mock your helplessness.

The silence in the room was suffocating, making the space feel smaller with each passing second, feeding the agony and fear in your already disoriented mind.

After what felt like an eternity, the figure dressed as Ghostface finally moved. He approached slowly, deliberately, a precise predator closing in on prey that never had a chance. With every step he took, death came closer. Of that, you were certain.

Upon stopping in front of you, the masked figure brought a gloved hand to the back of his neck, and the sound of velcro tearing could be heard. He shed the black robe he had been wearing, left only in his underclothes, a tight black turtleneck with long sleeves, black jeans, and black combat boots.

Looking closely, you could see that in the small strip of pale skin exposed between the glove and the sleeve of his shirt, there was what appeared to be dried blood and faint, dark traces of some tattoo.

"Your friends still haven’t woken up… And as much as I’m itching to cut that pretty little face of yours, I suggest you stay perfectly still and silent until that happens," he whispered as he moved even closer, looming over you.

"You wouldn’t want to see me angry, would you, sweetheart?" The passive, silk-smooth tone of his voice did nothing to calm your nerves, in fact, it had the opposite effect, and yet, you forced yourself to nod, trembling with fear.

"Good… Good girl." He stroked your cheek in a tone that bordered on affectionate.

He stepped away at the same pace he had approached, careful and stealthy. He turned and walked over to where the other figures stood, murmuring something inaudible to them. The others nodded in agreement to whatever command had been given and left the room shortly after, leaving only the Ghostface figure behind.

The noise and movement to your left startled you. Carol was slowly waking up, unaware of the situation unfolding around her. As she gradually began to grasp what was happening and her mind started to connect the dots, panic overtook her. She began to thrash, and muffled, desperate screams filled the silence. The masked man let out a sigh that radiated irritation as he approached her, his displeasure made clear in his body language.

His hands rested on his slim, defined waist, and his head — still covered by the mask — tilted back, eyes on the ceiling in irritation. Before Carol could react and scream again, a powerful blow struck her, silencing her instantly. Her face snapped to the side from the force of the punch, and for a moment, you thought you saw a thin stream of blood run down her temple.

“Jesus, why do women always scream so much? It’s so… annoying. I suggest you shut up before I get even more irritated and decide to use your vocal cords to make a necklace.” He turned, and his rigid posture seemed to ease as he addressed you. “My good girl is going to keep behaving, right? Or else…” He gestured toward the mask in a motion that mimicked a slicing cut and pointed at you, a silent threat, and an imminent promise.

He stepped away again, disappearing from view and returning to your line of sight holding a black duffel bag that looked full.

You and Carol exchanged a glance, eyes brimming with tears of fear, trapped in a silent conversation overflowing with emotion.

It was surreal how just a few hours ago, everyone present had been living their lives, unaware of the danger lurking nearby, ready to trap them in its web.

You had started your morning as usual, a cold shower to shake off the sleep and get ready for another day of college. As you came down the stairs and joined your parents for breakfast, the low voice of the news reporter on the morning broadcast filled the room. You couldn’t help but pay attention to the report as you served yourself a bowl of fruit.

A sense of impending doom spread through your body, and the calm way your parents watched the news did nothing to ease your frayed nerves. The reporter’s voice announcing yet another body discovered was what finally made you turn to face the screen.

"Another body, or what was left of it was found at the local dairy factory. Morning shift workers came across the main gate showing signs of forced entry. Believing it to be a case of theft and trespassing, they decided to call the authorities." The woman gestured toward where the camera was pointed.

"When police arrived at the scene, they were shocked to find a naked, brutalized female torso. The bones were shattered, and the arms had been stitched into an 'X' position. The torso showed a vertical incision running from the neck down to the pelvis, with no organs present, and the jaw had been broken and stretched beyond its limit to fit the heart that had been placed inside the mouth." The camera focused on the forensics team, all dressed in white and collecting evidence from the crime scene. "Another name added to the list of brutal murders haunting our beloved city over the past few days. The victim this time was identified as Heather Makenzie. May her soul rest in peace."

“Dear God… I can’t even imagine how that poor girl’s parents must be feeling right now.” your mother sympathized, receiving a silent nod from your father, who remained quiet.

Shaking your head heavily, you decided that dwelling on it wouldn’t do you any good. After all, what could you do about it? Nothing. Finishing your breakfast in complete silence, you got ready to leave and said goodbye to your parents, not knowing it would be the last time you'd ever see them.

The morning went by in the blink of an eye, but the strange sensation of being watched remained etched in your bones, like a suffocating blanket. Glances cast over your shoulder revealed nothing but familiar images of the busy street filled with pedestrians and cars, yet the feeling lingered, a tingling at the nape of your neck that refused to be ignored.

The afternoon dragged on, confined within the walls of the music store filled with instruments and vinyl records bathed in the orange sunlight of late afternoon. The store carried a comforting familiarity that almost managed to suppress the feeling of a pair of eyes watching you, a sensation that soon intensified again as the store emptied, leaving only you and your thoughts echoing alongside the silence that seemed to shrink the space with each passing minute.

Every creak of the floorboards and whisper of the wind outside sent a shockwave through you like ice in your veins, made your heart race and your fingers tremble in an irrational way. The ambient music that usually brought calm and peace had turned into a soundtrack that terrorized your thoughts.

Carol, your friend and coworker, noticing the tension in your shoulders as you flipped through stacks of vinyl records, set aside the shipment she was organizing and turned toward you with a warm smile and a mischievous sparkle in her eyes.

"Hey," she called out, almost in a whisper. "Got any plans for tonight?" She clasped her hands in front of her body.

You paused, considering the question. The idea of going out at night after everything that had happened in the city felt wrong and yet, oddly tempting.

"No," you replied cautiously, watching Carol’s face light up with excitement. "Why do you ask?"

She leaned back against the counter, gesturing animatedly as she spoke. "Well, you know that new nightclub that just opened on the outskirts of town? The one everyone’s been talking about?"

Yes, you knew. Temptation had opened months before the murders began, it was the newest hot spot for the youth of Hawkins. Everyone had heard the rumors about the wicked things that happened behind its walls.

"We thought it might be fun to check it out tonight, you know, to ease all this tension," Carol continued.

You hesitated, uncertainty crackling like shadows across your mind. "I don’t know, Carol, it seems… a little dangerous, especially after all those reports..."

The redhead placed a hand on your arm, reassuring you with a gentle touch and an earnest look. "Come on, it’ll be a chance to unwind. Besides, we’ll all be together. There’s strength in numbers."

As she spoke, a wave of excitement and apprehension washed over your consciousness. The prospect of a night out with your friends — and the chance to muffle the unsettling whispers in your mind, was undeniably tempting.

"Alright, I’ll go." You finally gave in, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

"Great!" she beamed. "We’ll meet at the club after our shift. Tonight’s going to be epic."

Little did you know those words would echo forever in your minds, a memory of a night that turned into a nightmare.

As night fell, you found yourself surprisingly at ease; the day’s worries were forgotten for a few hours.

When you closed the store, a sudden chill ran down your spine, making you look around with growing panic. Only you and the wind rustling through the tree leaves.

For a moment, the shadows seemed to dance and flicker in the dim light, teasing your rattled senses and stirring a restlessness deep in your gut.

Shaking off the discomfort and locking up the store, the empty street seemed to whisper back through the darkness of night, a palpable tension hanging in the air.

Glancing over your shoulder, half-expecting to find a figure cloaked in shadows watching your every move, your eyes found only the empty street, dimly lit by the weak glow of the streetlights. Taking a deep breath, you tried to shake the sense of dread clinging to you like a second skin.

Plugging in your headphones for a momentary distraction, your feet hurried to carry you home as fast as possible, the playlist offering a small, comforting escape.

The streets were eerily silent as you walked, the only sound being the muffled thud of your feet against the asphalt. Each passing shadow served to worsen the feeling that clung to the back of your head, unsettling and suffocating.

As you rounded the corner, the sensation of being pursued consumed your senses, making you walk faster and faster.

Unbeknownst to you, someone was lurking in the shadows, spying on your every move. He moved stealthily alongside your body while his silent footsteps followed your trail, like a predator hunting its prey.

With every step you took, he matched you with frightening precision. As you passed through a more brightly lit area, that tall, unfamiliar shadow caught your attention, trailing your footsteps.

Keeping your composure, you decided in a split second to change course, walking away from your house. It seemed like the right thing to do given the situation, a desperate and foolish attempt to lose the stranger who was following you.

Your heart pounded erratically in your chest, pumping more blood with each beat to aid your escape, the sound of your hurried footsteps echoing through the empty night. You needed to find a safe place to seek help, but your plan quickly lost its purpose when you realized you’d ventured into the darkest, most desolate parts of town.

His footsteps grew louder and faster, he was closing in at an alarming speed. Panic took hold of you, your breath coming in gasps as you searched for an escape, but the winding alleys and deserted streets seemed to lead you farther away from the city center and deeper into the abandoned areas.

Your primal survival instinct surged as adrenaline coursed through your veins, urging you to run.

Without hesitation, you bolted, dropping your headphones in the middle of the road. The sound of the pursuit was now the soundtrack echoing in your ears.

No matter how fast you ran, his footsteps never faltered. They grew louder and closer until they were nearly upon you. In a wave of desperation, you threw your body forward to gain more momentum, the world around you reduced to a blur of shadows and heavy footsteps.

When you thought you had no strength left, you spotted the distant glow of a streetlamp lighting a familiar intersection ahead — a glimmer of hope in your heart.

With burning legs from the effort, you reached the intersection. Gasping for breath, you turned to confront your pursuer and fight for your life, but as you spun around with clenched fists, you were met with an empty street. The shadowy figure had vanished completely, leaving you alone in the stillness of the night.

As the adrenaline slowly faded, reality crashed down on your shoulders. What had just happened? Who or what was following you?

With trembling hands, you grabbed your phone and dialed the police to report what had occurred and to seek the safety and comfort of your home once the officers arrived to rescue you.

Lowering your guard was your mistake. As you dialed, the mysterious person slowly approached from behind. The moment the operator answered, you felt a strong arm grip your upper body, while a damp cloth was pressed against your nose and mouth, preventing you from breathing. You dropped the phone, and your hands went to the arms holding you, scratching and pulling in a desperate attempt to break free.

The sweet and sickly smell of whatever was on the cloth invaded your nostrils and coated your taste buds, warm and acidic. You struggled frantically as the arms held you in place.

The operator’s voice echoed urgently from the phone as you fought for your life. In a desperate move, your elbow struck your captor’s stomach, giving you the perfect chance to break free.

Dazed and disoriented, you staggered forward, trying to run without looking back. Your vision blurred even more, and your body felt unsteady.

With each step, the world seemed to spin faster, and darkness closed in around you. Tripping over your own feet, you fell to your knees. Your limbs felt heavy, as if made of lead when you tried to stand.

Fear scratched at your throat when you realized you were losing control of your body and your movements. Through the haze of confusion and panic, you heard the sound of footsteps drawing closer from behind. With your heart pounding in your chest, you tried to crawl along the ground to escape the imminent danger.

But it was too late. A strong hand grabbed your shoulder and pulled you back with cruel force. You could feel your captor’s hot breath on your neck as his grip tightened. A little mouse caught in the suffocating embrace of a serpent.

With your last strength, you turned to face him, but your vision was too blurry to recognize the shadowy figure lit by the streetlamp. You tried to scream, to fight, but your body refused to obey.

Your eyes grew heavy and you sank into darkness. The sounds of the world muffled and drifted away, as if you were underwater. Your consciousness faded, leaving you submerged in a dark void.

And now, here you are, tied to a chair in an unknown place, unaware of what your life will become after leaving, that is, if you leave at all.

Sitting and waiting for the rest of your friends to wake up, watching their faces contort with confusion and horror as they realize the situation, was all that remained for you. The oppressive silence in the room weighed down like the weight of a thousand unanswered questions; every passing second was filled with dread and uncertainty.

The minutes stretched into an agonizing eternity, the sound of their clothes rustling slowly against their restraints the only thing preventing you from losing your mind. As you looked at each of them and realized they were waking up, you mentally prepared yourself for the torture of seeing the look of despair on their faces.

As the effects of the sedative they had inhaled wore off, consciousness returned and the understanding of their situation became too suffocating to bear. Panic and desperation were etched on their faces, controlling their bodies as they thrashed frantically, the natural instinct to survive taking hold.

With a heavy heart, you shook your head when they all looked at you, conveying a silent message: there was no escape from this nightmare.

All that remained now was to wait for your masked captors to return and put an end to your agony. Praying seemed like the only right thing to do in that moment, a final act to plead for mercy.

But deep down, all of you knew, that mercy would be the last thing offered to you in that dark dingy room that surrounded you.

Like actors on a stage, they appeared, as if lurking and waiting for the perfect moment of the climax of your horror to reveal themselves.

“Well, well, well, it seems my little mice have finally awakened from their deep sleep,” the deep and malevolent voice came from Ghostface, a sinister laugh hidden in his calculated words. “Ah, don’t look at me like that, I was very generous to leave you all together.” He walked among the chairs cruelly positioned in a circle in the middle of the room.

The other figures hidden behind him watched the scene unfold, the air thick with tension and the inevitable.

“I propose… a game,” he continued, his voice dripping with malice. “A game of survival, so to speak. Each of you has a secret, a dirty little secret that would probably ruin your perfect reputations.” He walked slowly and stopped in front of you, the hollow eyes of the mask piercing into your mind. “Some of them are even worthy of police attention.”

The room was silent, only the sound of heavy, trembling breaths could be heard, the weight and meaning of the words slowly sinking into each of you.

“All I ask is that you confess those secrets, in front of each other, and if you truly repent… I’ll let you go,” the masked man continued in a whisper that bordered on psychosis.

You exchanged fearful glances, each of you knew the weight and gravity of your own secrets. The bones you had hoped would stay buried had just been unearthed, but in the face of survival and freedom, the temptation and need to confess grew stronger.

The oppressive, threatening energy that Ghostface emanated did nothing to soothe your frayed nerves.

“So, who will be the first to confess?” he asked, his voice lively and full of anticipation. “Who among you will take the first step toward redemption?” He waited expectantly for one of you to volunteer.

“No one?” The masked man looked at your frightened faces and crossed his arms in disapproval. “Looks like I’ll have to choose, then, won’t I?” He raised a finger and examined the group. “Eeny, meeny, miny, moe… The chosen one is… you!” His finger landed directly on Tommy.

Tommy’s eyes widened in horror, and he shook his head frantically, tears welling up in the eyes of the poor boy, terrified at the thought of what awaited him. Ghostface leaned in close to the boy’s face, watching him squirm.

“Tommy, Tommy…” he said, extending his hand still covered in the latex glove toward the gag on the young man’s mouth, pulling it down so he could speak. “I’m dying to know what your little secret is.”

Tommy’s mouth opened and closed without making a sound, like a fish out of water, as he struggled to find his voice. He looked around at the group surrounding him, trembling and trying to gather his thoughts.

“I... I...” His voice was barely more than a frightened whisper, his gaze shifting between the horrid white mask in front of him and his friends watching the whole scene.

“Speak, Tommy. Confess your sins.”

Taking a deep breath, he finally found the courage to speak. With a voice almost inaudible and trembling, he revealed the secret that had haunted him for so long.

“I cheated on my girlfriend, Carol.” The boy’s eyes shut in shame as Carol stared at him, a mixture of disgust and sorrow on her face.

The room fell silent once more, the weight of the words hanging in the air.

“Ah, now that’s interesting,” the masked man said sarcastically. “An unfaithful boyfriend, how scandalous!” Tommy’s face turned red as he blushed with shame, and he looked away from his girlfriend’s accusing gaze. The room suddenly felt smaller.

“Tell us more, boy,” Ghostface continued in a low, threatening voice. “What did it feel like to betray someone you claimed to care about? To deceive and lie?”

“Please…” Tommy pleaded, “you said-”

“I know what I said, little mouse,” Ghostface interrupted in a serious tone. “But unfortunately, that’s not your secret.”

Confusion was visible on everyone’s faces, the masked man’s face revealing nothing, only adding more terror.

“So what is it?” Tommy asked, sounding like a confused child, and was met with an incredulous laugh in response.

“How should I know? You’re the one who has to tell me,” he replied with malice and amusement.

Tommy let out a puff of air through his nostrils and closed his eyes, contemplating his next decision.

“I… Once, I was broke and desperate for money. I had tried everything: work, taking out a loan, and nothing worked. So, one night before a school game, I waited for all the guys to go to the sports court and made up an excuse that I’d forgotten something, and went to the locker room where we showered.” He opened his eyes and stared at Jason. “I always knew you usually kept your pockets full, so I went to your locker, took all the money from your wallet, and hid it in my things. Then I made it look like someone had broken in, and when you asked me if I saw who entered the locker room, I lied and blamed someone else.”

Jason’s expression shifted from confusion to anger as the words left his friend’s mouth, the weight of the lie wrapping around him like a heavy blanket. You and the girls exchanged shocked glances at the gravity of the situation and the discovery of a new facet of a friend.

“So, not only did you cheat on Carol, but you also framed someone else for theft?” Ghostface said with a cold, calculated voice. “Your sins are piling up, Tommy.”

“And, once again, that’s not your secret, little mouse,” he said, amused as if enjoying a game.

“What the fuck do you want from me?!” the boy shouted at the masked man.

“Don’t raise your voice at me,” Ghostface threatened. “Remember how generous I’m being by giving you a chance to spare your life.”

In a swift movement, his hand covered Tommy’s nose and mouth, cutting off his air supply. The boy’s eyes widened in panic as he struggled to breathe.

“I can change that if you want,” he suggested in an eerily calm voice. “But I’m feeling generous today, so I’ll give you a hint.” He released Tommy’s face.

“Your senior year at Hawkins High, camp, forest, scouts…” He paused and watched the color drain from Tommy’s face.

The boy trembled at the implication, stammering in a broken whisper.

“I-I didn’t… I swear I…” The words tasted bitter and heavy in his mouth. Ghostface’s mocking laughter filled the room.

“Oh, Tommy…” he said condescendingly, “do you really think you can hide things from me? I know everything.”

“Now, Tommy, tell all your friends what you’ve been hiding all these years. Let’s see what they think of it all, hm?” he ordered, crossing his arms and waiting.

Painful, shameful sobs echoed through the room, Tommy was crying uncontrollably, overwhelmed by the shame and the cruel reality he would have to face after revealing his secret. Joyful, entertained laughter spilled from the mouths of the masked figures, watching the scene as if it were a film worthy of an Oscar.

"We took a trip to a nearby town during our last year of high school," he confessed, his voice trembling and laced with shame. "The principal thought it’d be better if we went with a group that knew the place, so we joined the scouts and went camping for a week in the mountains, near a lake in the middle of the forest." Tommy’s eyes remained fixed on the ground, on the boots of the man standing in front of him.

"None of that, little mouse," Ghostface interrupted, roughly grabbing the boy’s tear and snot-streaked cheeks with a gloved hand, forcing his face upward. "Look at them," he said, pointing a finger at your group of friends, who watched everything in silence. "I want you to see the disappointment and disgust when they find out what you did."

He nodded faintly, and the pressure on his cheeks subsided. Gathering the courage to go on, he fixed his red, tear-filled eyes on you.

"On that trip, I met this guy from the scouts, his name was Gareth," he said, swallowing hard as he noticed your eyes widen in recognition. "He was from that group of weirdos at school, but honestly, he was funny and smart." He took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves. "We got close really fast, it was like we were the same person in different bodies… And then I started seeing him differently."

Carol and Tammy maintained the same expression they’d worn when he admitted the betrayal — scorn — while you and Jason’s eyes widened, each for a different reason.

"I've always been a coward when it comes to feelings, but he wasn’t. When everyone went to sleep, we snuck out of the tents and went to the other side of the lake together, we sat by the shore and talked."

His lower lip trembled, and his face had gone blank, as if he were reliving the moment.

"He noticed the way I looked at him that night, and he made the first move, he kissed me… and I kissed him back."

Gasps echoed through the room. Jason and the rest of your friends wore their disgust openly on their faces, while you kept the same unreadable expression.

“I… That night, we had sex on the forest floor, right there near the lake,” he cleared his throat and continued, his voice trembling. “We weren’t discreet, and another guy from the team caught us when we were coming back to the tents, and I did what I always did best, I lied and blamed Gareth, accused him of trying to kiss me when he knew I didn’t want anything.”

He started crying heavily and looked down at the ground, this time without holding back. “I said he was a pathetic little fag to save my own skin… His eyes, I’ll never forget how he looked at me after that.”

The room fell completely silent after the confession, the weight of the words settling in the minds of everyone present.

“The first truth has been revealed!” Ghostface and the masked figures celebrated with a round of applause that only increased Tommy’s embarrassment. “Very well, Tommy, your sins have been exposed for all to see.”

He continued with his head down, feeling the accusatory stares piercing through his defenses. In everyone’s mind, the question lingered: 'Was it worth surviving at such a high cost?' The price of redemption seemed higher than anything else, an expensive bargaining chip for they survival.

“And do you know what happened to him afterward?” The captor broke the heavy silence, Tommy nodded.

“When I woke up the next morning, he was no longer in the camp. The news had spread earlier when the rest of the team woke up, they pulled him out of the tent and beat him so badly that they had to send him home, or he would have died from the state he was.” He admitted, and you closed your eyes as you imagined the cruelty of the scene.

“And do you regret it, Tommy?” The masked man’s tone was unreadable.

“Every day of my life, I remember the look in his eyes changing as he watched me throw him to the wolves.” He whispered sadly.

“So you wouldn’t mind receiving a punishment fitting your sin, would you?” Like a twisted and macabre version of a savior, Ghostface stepped away from the group.

The young man’s heart began to race faster, the weight of his actions pressing down on his shoulders and suffocating him like a python’s embrace.

“What? But you said-”

“Shut up and answer the question.” He cut him off, ordering with a firm voice.

“I-I think so, but-” His voice stammered and trembled with desperation and fear.

“Great!” He clapped his hands, sending a wave of fear through everyone present. “Then, let the fun begin,” he declared, stepping back from the circle of friends.

“Jason,” he called, extending a hand toward another masked figure hidden in the shadows, this one wearing the classic white hockey mask full of holes. “Care to do the honors?”

Jason’s figure gave a silent nod and stepped forward with purpose. In his gloved hands, he held a gleaming, razor-sharp machete, the shine of the metal a quiet threat of what was to come. You and the others watched in horror and disbelief as the masked man approached your restrained friend.

Tommy’s eyes widened as he saw Jason raise the machete, the blade gleaming as if it knew its purpose. The only sound was the shaky breathing of the desperate young man, while the other masked figures around watched in anticipation, eager for the outcome.

With a swift motion, Jason brought the machete down toward Tommy’s neck, the nauseating sound of the sharp blade slicing through the air at high speed.

“Wait.” Ghostface ordered sharply.

Instead of striking the young man, the machete stopped a hair’s breadth from his neck, close enough to almost draw blood from one of his arteries.

Tommy let out a breath of relief, his heart pounding in his chest. “W-what are you doing?” he stammered, the fleeting relief already draining from his body.

Ghostface let out a dark, malicious laugh, savoring the young man’s desperation in an almost erotically way. “We’re just getting started, my little mouse,” he teased playfully. “You wanted a punishment worthy of your secret, didn’t you? Well then, killing you wouldn’t be punishment, it would be mercy.” He stepped closer to Tommy. “And I am not merciful, little mouse.”

Muffled screams and chaos took over the room as the other masked figures moved in. The twisted game of survival had taken an even darker turn, and the price of everyone’s secrets would be paid in blood and tears.

With a wave of his hand, Ghostface gestured to the others. “Let’s give our little mouse a taste of his own medicine, shall we?” he asked, his voice dripping with malice as the others nodded in agreement. “I think maybe you should feel what your… friend Gareth felt when he was beaten by the basketball team. It won’t come close to his real pain, I believe, but it’ll do.”

And at his signal, the captors closed in around Tommy and began to beat him, the sound of his screams and those of your friends filling the room with despair.

Ghostface, who had stepped back to give the others space, watched the scene with twisted delight. “You know, little mouse Tommy, I must say, your betrayal of Gareth was truly despicable. But what can you expect from someone ashamed of his own flesh and being?” he accused, venom dripping from his voice. “But don’t worry… I’m here to make sure you pay for your sins.”

He watched the scene and let out a cruel laugh, his eyes gleaming behind the mask as he reveled in the violence and torture being inflicted on the boy, Tommy’s screams like the sweetest melody gracing his ears.

“Please, no!” Tommy begged, bloodied and broken, as blows from every direction struck him without mercy. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I swear I regret it! For the love of God, have mercy!”

“Apologies won’t help you now, little mouse Tommy,” he mocked. “You’ll receive your punishment, quite merciful, if you ask me…” Ghostface brought a hand to the chin of his mask, as if lost in thought.

The masked figures continued their relentless assault, each one taking turns inflicting pain upon him. One of them pulled a whip from a duffel bag and with sharp snaps of leather lashed Tommy’s back, the crack echoing like a gunshot. Amidst it all, he screamed and begged for mercy, but his pleas were drowned out by the storm of violence surrounding him.

“Wait.” Ghostface ordered with a wave of his hand. “Take off his pants, and his underwear too.”

Several pairs of hands held Tommy firmly and pulled the clothes off his body as he writhed. “No! No, please!”

With a weary sigh, Ghostface approached the half-naked boy. "You know, I'm already bored with you, I think it's time we put an end to this little game," he declared, pulling out a serrated knife hidden in the waistband of his pants. "It's a little rusty, but I don't think you mind, do you?" With a nod from him, one of the figures offered to lift the boy's flaccid penis.

"Cover his mouth, Jason." That was the only warning Ghostface gave before slicing the knife into the base of Tommy's penis. The rusty knife sliced the shaft in half as Tommy howled in pain. "Oops, I guess I should have sharpened it. This will hurt even more, little mouse." The room was filled with the sickening sound of flesh being torn apart, Tommy's screams had ceased as the boy had passed out.

Seeing the boy's member lying on the ground, Ghostface wiped the dirty knife on the unconscious boy's shirt and walked away. The other figures still surrounded him, waiting for the next order.

"And so ends the story of Tommy the Mouse," he said as if narrating a fairy tale, dark satisfaction dripping from his voice. "A cautionary tale for anyone who dares betray their friends."

You and your friends watched in complete silence and terror, fearful of becoming a target of his wrath.

Tammy's eyes were wide with shock, her breath coming in ragged gasps of suppressed panic. She struggled unconsciously against her restraints, her mind unable to comprehend or process the image that lay before her eyes, staring at Tommy's mutilated body, the shocking brutality that he was in.

Jason — always trying to play the tough guy and keep a false sense of calm — was pale and visibly shaken, his jaw clenched tightly in a display of fear disguised as anger, his eyes avoiding the sight of his unconscious friend lying before him.

Carol stared at Tommy with tears streaming down her face, whimpers of horror and fear escaping her lips. Despite her boyfriend’s confession, she still loved him and hadn’t wished such a cruel fate to him.

And you, sitting between them, didn’t quite know what to feel — fear, disgust, sorrow? None of your emotions seemed like the right one to have in that moment.

The night that was supposed to be full of joy had taken a terrifying turn. The realization that this wasn’t just a harmless game of sharing secrets had finally hit all of you like a bucket of cold water, and the certainty that Ghostface would carry out his twisted form of justice haunted your friends thoughts even more.

Turning to the rest of you, he spoke again. “Well, now that we’ve dealt with Tommy’s little secret… Who’s next?” he asked, his tone laced with malice.

taglist: @ali-r3n @jayden-killer @ratsematary @kellsck @mdurdenpitt @ohnowhoops @ofnightshadeandthornyroses @ghostbustersfan10 @celest1alore

[angelagiarratana]

Meet Cute

A quiet night at a warm, LA bar takes a turn when Angela Giarratana bumps into you and accidentally sets off the kind of spark you only read about in books.

What starts with spilled drinks and flustered apologies quickly melts into banter, slow walk home, a kiss against your apartment door, and hours spent talking and tangled together leave you wondering how a chance collision could feel like fate.

Angela thinks you’re the most beautiful person she’s ever seen; you think she’s impossibly charming. You both might be right.

The bar was one of those perfectly curated LA spots—not too pretentious, not too dive-y, with Edison bulbs casting warm amber light across exposed brick walls and a playlist that somehow knew exactly when to shift from indie pop to something more sultry. You'd come here with friends, but they'd scattered to various corners: Maya was deep in conversation with someone about cryptocurrency (God help them), and Jordan had disappeared onto the patio for what was definitely going to be a lengthy phone call with their long-distance partner.

Which left you at the bar, perched on a leather stool, nursing a gin and tonic and people-watching in that particular way one does when they're alone in public. Half-observing, half-lost in their own thoughts, wholly aware of how the dim lighting caught the sheen of your top just right. You'd dressed up tonight, really dressed up, in a way that made you feel like yourself for once. The skirt was long and flowing, a deep emerald green that moved like water when you walked, with a slit that climbed high enough on your thigh to be interesting without being obvious.

You were mid-sip, condensation from the glass cool against your fingers, when it happened.

One moment you were alone with your thoughts and the pleasant buzz of conversation around you. The next, there was a collision.

Not hard, but sudden enough to send your drink sloshing dangerously close to the rim of your glass. A hand shot out to steady your arm, and you turned to find yourself face-to-face with possibly the most beautiful woman you'd ever seen in real life.

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry!" She had dark curly hair that tumbled past her shoulders, expressive eyes that were currently wide with mortification, and a smile that was somehow both apologetic and absolutely radiant. "I was trying to squeeze past and I just—I'm so sorry, did I get any on you?"

You recognized her immediately. Angela Giarratana. You'd seen her in Smosh videos, watched her absolutely destroy people in Try Not to Laugh challenges, admired her comedic timing and the way she could shift from absolutely unhinged to genuinely heartfelt in seconds. And now she was here, in front of you, one hand still gently holding your forearm, close enough that you could smell her perfume. Something warm and slightly spicy that made your head spin more than the gin had.

"No, no, you're good," you managed, and wow, your voice came out steadier than you felt. "No casualties. The drink survived."

"Thank God." Angela's hand lingered a moment longer than strictly necessary before she pulled back, and you could have sworn you saw her gaze flicker down and then back up, taking you in. "I would've had to buy you a replacement, and honestly, I'm already mortified enough without adding 'girl who ruins strangers' outfits' to my reputation."

"Your reputation?" You tilted your head, playing coy, even though your heart was doing something complicated in your chest. "Should I know your reputation?"

Something shifted in her expression: a spark of intrigue, maybe, or the recognition that you were playing a game. Her lips curved into a smile that was decidedly less apologetic and decidedly more interested. "I mean, I'd like to think I have a reputation for being charming and delightful, but my friends would probably say it's more 'chaos gremlin who can't walk in a straight line.'"

"The evidence does support the chaos theory," you said, gesturing vaguely at the near-collision that had just occurred.

"Ouch." But she was grinning now, fully grinning, and she shifted closer. Not crowding you, but definitely entering your space in a way that felt intentional. "Okay, I deserved that. Let me make it up to you. Can I buy you your next drink? As an apology for my complete lack of spatial awareness?"

You should have said no. You should have been cool, aloof, made her work for it a little more. Instead, you found yourself saying, "Only if you stay and help me drink it. I got ditched by my friends, and drinking alone makes me look either mysterious or sad, and I can't tell which."

"Mysterious," Angela said immediately. "Definitely mysterious. You've got this whole..." She gestured at you, a wave of her hand that encompassed your entire being. "This whole thing going on. The outfit, the vibe, the way you're sitting there like you're in a movie and the lighting guy specifically positioned that bulb to hit you just right."

Heat crept up your neck. "The lighting guy did do a good job tonight."

"He really did." Angela was definitely looking at you now, not even trying to hide it, and there was something in her gaze that made you feel like you were the only person in the entire bar. She flagged down the bartender with an ease that suggested she was a regular, or at least comfortable in spaces like this. "What are you drinking?"

"Gin and tonic."

"Classic. Sophisticated." She ordered your drink and something for herself. When the bartender moved away, Angela leaned against the bar, angling her body toward yours. "So, mysterious girl who I nearly assaulted with my inability to navigate crowded spaces, do you have a name?"

You told her, and watched the way she repeated it, like she was testing how it felt in her mouth.

"That's pretty," she said, and the sincerity in her voice made your chest tight. "I'm Angela."

"I know," you said, and then immediately wanted to take it back, because now you'd revealed your hand.

But Angela just lit up. "Oh, you know! Okay, so you were just messing with me with the whole 'should I know your reputation' thing."

"Maybe I just wanted to see what you'd say."

"Okay, that's—" Angela laughed, a genuine, delighted sound. "That's actually kind of hot? Like, you saw me being a disaster and decided to just... let me keep going?"

"You were doing so well, I didn't want to interrupt."

Your drinks arrived, and Angela paid before you could even reach for your wallet, sliding your gin and tonic across the bar with a little flourish. "To new friends," she said, raising her glass. "And to me not spilling this one all over you."

"Ambitious," you said, but you clinked your glass against hers.

The first sip was cold and botanical and perfect. The second sip was even better, because you took it while Angela was watching you, and you could see the exact moment she forgot to look away.

"So," you said, setting your glass down and turning to face her more fully. The movement made your skirt shift, the slit falling open just slightly, and you didn't miss the way Angela's eyes tracked the movement before snapping back up to your face. "Do you make a habit of running into girls at bars, or am I special?"

"Oh, you're definitely special." Angela took a sip of her drink, and you watched her throat work as she swallowed. "I usually have much better coordination. You've clearly thrown me off my game."

"I've thrown you off your game? I'm just sitting here."

"Yeah, exactly. Just sitting there. Looking like that." Angela gestured at you again, more emphatically this time. "Do you know what you look like right now? Because I feel like you know. You have to know."

You bit your lip, fighting a smile. "Why don't you tell me?"

"Oh, we're doing this?" Angela set her drink down, shifting so she was fully facing you now, and the intensity of her attention was almost overwhelming. "Okay. You look like if someone googled 'girl I'd absolutely lose my mind over at a bar' and it somehow found an image of you. Like, the skirt? The slit? The way you're just casually sitting there like you didn't put thought into every single element of this outfit?"

"Who says I put thought into it?" You were absolutely putting thought into it. You'd changed three times before leaving your apartment.

"Your shoes match your top. That's not an accident."

Damn. She was observant. "Maybe I'm just naturally coordinated."

"Unlike some of us," Angela said wryly, and you both laughed.

The conversation flowed easier after that, like a door had been opened and you'd both decided to walk through it. Angela was funny, genuinely, effortlessly funny in a way that made you forget you were supposed to be playing it cool. She told you about a disastrous shoot earlier that week where everything that could go wrong did, complete with dramatic reenactments that made the bartender glance over more than once. You told her about your job, your friends, the way Maya had been trying to convince you to invest in some cryptocurrency scheme for the past three weeks.

"Don't do it," Angela said seriously. "I know someone who lost like, so much money on some coin that was literally called 'RocketMoon' or something equally ridiculous."

"RocketMoon?"

"I might be combining two different scam coins, but you get the idea."

You were laughing again, and Angela was watching you with this soft expression that made your stomach flip. The bar had gotten more crowded, people pressing in around you, and at some point Angela had moved closer to let someone pass and then just... stayed there. Close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off her, close enough that when she leaned in to hear you better over the noise, her hair brushed against your shoulder.

"Can I ask you something?" Angela said, and her voice had dropped lower, more intimate.

"Sure."

"Are you flirting with me, or am I just incredibly gay and reading into everything?"

Your heart kicked into overdrive. This was it. The moment where you could play it safe, laugh it off, keep things ambiguous. Or you could be brave.

"What if I said both?" you said. "What if you're incredibly gay and I'm absolutely flirting with you?"

Angela's eyes went wide, and then she laughed, this breathless, delighted sound. "Okay. Okay, good. Great. Excellent, even. Because I've been trying to figure out how to flirt with you for the past twenty minutes and I kept psyching myself out."

"You've been flirting with me the entire time."

"I have?"

"The compliments? The intense eye contact? The way you keep finding excuses to touch my arm?"

Angela looked down at her hand, which was indeed resting on your forearm, and snatched it back like she'd been burned. "Oh my God. I didn't even realize, I'm sorry, I should ask before I just—"

"Angela." You caught her hand before she could pull away completely, lacing your fingers through hers. "I didn't say I minded."

The look on her face was something you wanted to memorize: Surprise and pleasure and something heated that made your skin feel too tight. Her fingers tightened around yours.

"You're really good at this," she said.

"At what?"

"At making me forget how to function." Angela shook her head, laughing at herself. "I'm usually better at this, I swear. I can be smooth. I've been smooth before."

"I don't believe you."

"Rude." But she was smiling, and she hadn't let go of your hand. "Okay, watch this. I'm going to be so smooth right now."

"I'm watching."

Angela opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "I... fuck. I had something. I had a whole thing."

You couldn't help it, you laughed, and after a moment, Angela joined in, dropping her forehead to your shoulder in mock defeat. You could feel her laughing against you, could feel the way her breath warmed your skin through the thin fabric of your top.

"This is the opposite of smooth," she said, muffled against your shoulder.

"I think it's pretty smooth, actually."

She lifted her head, and suddenly her face was very close to yours. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. It's honest. I like honest."

"Okay, honestly?" Angela's gaze dropped to your lips, then back up. "I think you're the most beautiful person I've ever seen walk into this bar, and I've been coming here for two years. I think your laugh sounds like something I'd want to hear every day. I think I want to know everything about you, and also I really, really want to kiss you, but we're in public and I'm trying to be respectful about it."

Your breath caught. "That's pretty smooth."

"I have my moments." Her thumb traced a circle on the back of your hand. "So what do we do about this?"

"About what?"

"About the fact that I want to keep talking to you but I also can't think straight when you look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you know exactly what you're doing to me."

You did know. You could see it in the way her pupils had dilated, the way she kept wetting her lips, the way her free hand was fidgeting with the edge of a cocktail napkin like she needed something to do with it. And the thing was, she was doing the exact same thing to you. Your heart was racing, your skin felt electric everywhere she touched you, and you were hyperaware of every inch of space between your bodies.

"Maybe we're even, then," you said softly. "Because you're not exactly making it easy for me to think straight either."

"Good." Angela's smile turned a little wicked. "So we're both disasters. I can work with that."

"Can you?"

"Absolutely. In fact, I think we should lean into it. Embrace the chaos."

"What does that look like?"

Angela pretended to think about it, tilting her head in a way that made her waves cascade over one shoulder. "Well, I could tell you more about how gorgeous you are. Really get into the specifics. Like how the lighting is hitting your collarbones right now and it's actually making me insane."

Heat flooded through you. "You could do that."

"Or," Angela continued, and her voice had gone even lower, "you could tell me what you were thinking about before I crashed into you. Because you had this look on your face, like you were a million miles away."

"I was thinking about how I was glad I wore this outfit."

"Mission accomplished on that front."

"And," you continued, emboldened by the way she was looking at you, "I was thinking about how I was probably going to go home alone tonight and how that was fine, but also a little disappointing."

"And now?"

"Now I'm thinking that maybe I won't be disappointed after all."

Angela's breath hitched audibly. "You're really, you're really good at this. Like, concerningly good. Should I be worried that you're out of my league?"

"You're literally semi famous."

"You're literally making me forget my own name right now, so I think we're even."

You laughed, and Angela's expression softened into something tender. "I really like your laugh," she said. "I know I already said that, but it bears repeating."

"What else bears repeating?"

"Fishing for compliments now?"

"Maybe. Is it working?"

"Absolutely." Angela shifted even closer, and now you were definitely in each other's space, knees touching, her hand still wrapped around yours. "Okay, let's see. You're beautiful, obviously, we've established that. But you're also funny, and you're quick, and you've been keeping up with me this entire time, which is not easy because I talk a lot and I jump around topics and—"

"Angela."

"Yeah?"

"You're doing it again."

"Doing what?"

"Being charming without realizing it."

She ducked her head, and even in the dim light you could see the flush spreading across her cheeks. "You can't just say things like that."

"Why not?"

"Because it makes me want to—" She cut herself off, biting her lip.

"Want to what?"

Angela looked up at you through her lashes, and the expression on her face was something between shy and bold, uncertain and determined. "Makes me want to stop being respectful about the whole public kissing thing."

Your stomach flipped. "Who says you have to be respectful?"

"Society. Decorum. The bartender who's definitely been watching us for the past five minutes."

You glanced over. The bartender was, indeed, watching you both with barely concealed amusement. When he caught your eye, he grinned and gave you a subtle thumbs up.

"I think he approves," you said.

"Of course he approves. We're adorable." Angela squeezed your hand. "But maybe we should take this somewhere more private? Not because I'm assuming anything," she added quickly. "Just because I'd like to keep talking to you without having to yell over the music, and also because if you keep looking at me like that, I'm going to do something inadvisable."

"What if I want you to do something inadvisable?"

"Then you're going to kill me. Actually kill me. I'm going to combust right here at this bar."

You finished your drink, keeping eye contact with her the entire time, and watched her watch you. "Why don't you walk me home?" you said. "My apartment's only a few blocks from here."

Angela's eyes went wide. "I—yeah. Yes. Absolutely. I can do that. I can definitely walk you home. That's a thing I can do without making a complete fool of myself."

"I don't believe that for a second."

"Okay, fair." She stood up, still holding your hand, and helped you off the barstool with a gentleness that made your chest ache. "But I'm going to try really hard."

You texted your friends to let them know you were leaving. Maya responded with approximately fifteen exclamation points and a string of emojis that were definitely inappropriate. Then you and Angela were heading for the door, fingers still intertwined.

The night air was cool against your skin after the warmth of the bar, and you breathed in deeply, catching the scent of jasmine from somewhere nearby. LA at night was its own kind of magic: the palm trees silhouetted against the purple-orange sky, the distant sound of traffic, the way the city felt both infinite and intimate at the same time.

"Which way?" Angela asked, and you pointed left.

You walked slowly, neither of you in any hurry to end this. Angela told you about growing up in Los Angeles, about how she'd always known she wanted to perform but had never quite imagined it would look like this. You told her about your own journey to LA, the dreams you'd chased and the ones you'd let go of, the way the city had a habit of surprising you just when you thought you had it figured out.

"Like tonight," you said. "I definitely didn't expect to meet you."

"I definitely didn't expect to literally run into the most beautiful woman I've ever seen and somehow not completely blow it."

"Who says you haven't blown it?"

Angela stopped walking, tugging on your hand to make you stop too. "Have I?"

You turned to face her, and in the glow of the streetlight she looked almost ethereal. All soft edges and warm eyes and that smile that made you want to do reckless things. "No," you said softly. "You really, really haven't."

"Good." She stepped closer, and you could feel the electricity between you, the pull that had been building all night. "Because I really don't want this to end."

"It doesn't have to."

"No?"

"No." You reached up, brushing a curl back from her face, and felt her shiver under your touch. "We're almost to my place. You could come up. If you want."

"If I want," Angela repeated, and laughed. "If I want. Like there's any universe where I don't want that."

"Just checking."

"You're going to be the death of me." But she was smiling, and when you started walking again, she stayed close, her shoulder bumping against yours.

Your apartment building appeared too quickly and not quickly enough. You led Angela through the lobby, into the elevator, and watched the numbers climb while your heart tried to beat its way out of your chest. Angela was quiet now, but her hand was still in yours, and when you glanced over at her, she was already looking at you.

"Hi," she said softly.

"Hi."

"I'm nervous."

"Me too."

"Really?" Angela looked genuinely surprised. "You've been so confident all night."

"I'm good at faking it." You squeezed her hand. "But yeah. Really nervous. Good nervous, though."

The elevator dinged, and you led her down the hallway to your door. Your hands were shaking slightly as you unlocked it, and you were hyperaware of Angela behind you, close enough that you could feel her presence like a physical thing.

Your apartment was small but cozy, decorated in a way that you hoped said "put-together adult" and not "trying too hard." You'd left a lamp on, and it cast everything in a warm, golden glow.

"This is cute," Angela said, looking around. "Very you."

"You've known me for like two hours. How do you know what's very me?"

"Call it intuition." She was still holding your hand, and she used it to pull you closer. "Or maybe I'm just really good at reading people."

"And what are you reading right now?"

Angela's gaze dropped to your lips. "That you want me to kiss you as badly as I want to kiss you."

Your breath caught. "Pretty accurate reading."

"Yeah?" She reached up with her free hand, cupping your face with a gentleness that made you want to melt. "Can I?"

"Please."

Angela closed the distance between you, and the first touch of her lips against yours was electric. Soft and tentative at first, like she was still asking permission, still making sure this was okay. You answered by pressing closer, by sliding your free hand into her hair, by opening your mouth against hers and feeling her gasp.

The kiss deepened, and suddenly Angela's hands were on your waist, pulling you flush against her, and you were backing up until you hit the door, and she was everywhere.

Her mouth on yours, her body pressed against you, her hands sliding up your sides in a way that made you shiver.

"Is this okay?" she murmured against your lips.

"So okay," you managed, and then you were kissing her again, harder this time, with all the want that had been building since she'd first crashed into you at the bar.

Angela made a sound low in her throat, and her hands tightened on your waist. When she pulled back, you were both breathing hard, and her lips were kiss-swollen and her eyes were dark with want.

"I couldn't wait," she said, a little breathless. "I was going to be cool about it, maybe wait until we were inside for a few minutes, but then you looked at me like that and I just—I couldn't contain myself."

"I'm not complaining."

"Good." She kissed you again, softer this time, almost reverent. "Because I've been wanting to do that since the moment I saw you."

"You've been wanting to kiss me since you crashed into me?"

"I've been wanting to kiss you since I saw you sitting at that bar looking like every gay fantasy I've ever had come to life."

You laughed, and Angela smiled against your mouth. "I mean it," she said. "You're—God, you're incredible."

"So are you." You traced your fingers along her jawline, feeling her shiver. "Want to come further inside? Maybe somewhere more comfortable than pressed against my door?"

"Is that a trick question? Because obviously yes."

You took her hand again and led her to the couch, and when you sat down, Angela immediately curled into your side like she belonged there. It felt natural, easy, like you'd been doing this for years instead of hours.

"So," Angela said, playing with your fingers. "What now?"

"What do you want?"

"Honestly? I want to keep kissing you. But I also want to talk to you more. Learn everything about you. Figure out how I got this lucky."

Your heart swelled. "We could do both."

"Both is good. Both is great." She lifted your joined hands and pressed a kiss to your knuckles. "I really like you. Like, a concerning amount for someone I just met."

"The feeling's mutual."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." You leaned in and kissed her again, slow and sweet, and felt her smile against your mouth.

You did talk, eventually—about everything and nothing, about dreams and fears and the weird things that made you laugh. But mostly you kissed, long and slow and deep, learning the taste of each other, the way your bodies fit together, the sounds you could draw from each other with just a touch.

And when Angela finally left, hours later, with the promise to text you as soon as she got home and plans to see each other again tomorrow, you closed the door and leaned against it, touching your lips and smiling like an idiot.

Your phone buzzed almost immediately.

Angela: I miss you already. Is that weird?

You: Not weird. I miss you too.

Angela: Good. Because I'm already planning our next date in my head and I'm going to absolutely sweep you off your feet.

You: Pretty sure you already did that.

Angela: Then I'll do it again. And again. And again.

You: I'm not going to stop you.

Angela: Good. Because I don't think I could stop even if I wanted to.

You fell asleep with your phone in your hand and a smile on your face, already counting down the hours until you'd see her again.

[xxmooxmooxx]

i need someone to write a friends to lovers eddie munson x reader fic where he works at squawk w the gang and reader pls pls pls!

i need slow burn! i need smut! i neeeeeed eddie w his hair half up with head phones on plssssss!

[xxmooxmooxx]

someone

a byler happy ending w.b. x m.w. fanfic

this was requested by @cottagecoremommy

just a small blurb not too long but i hope you like it <3

no warnings (correct me if i’m wrong) just emo mike

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“I dont like girls…” the sentence on repeat in Mikes head. over . and over. and over. As he makes his way up the water tower. He thinks back to when he and will had that big fight… “It’s not my fault you dont like girls!” He had yelled at will. Mike winces thinking back to it. He starts thinking about the fucking jawdropping painting will gave him of them and their friends fighting a dragon as their d&d characters. He thinks about when the two of them first met on those goddamn swings…

Mike reaches a platform where he is able to stop and take a water break. As he stands there looking out while nursing his water he starts thinking about when he thought he had lost Will for good… or when Will was completely taken over by Vecna and in the hospital…

Mike hears someone coming up behind him and quickly wipes his face of stray tears and when he looks back of course it’s Will. Will walks up nextto him looking out at the scary but beautiful view.

“Hey um…” Mike starts, breaking the silence. “What you said earlier, at the Squawk… Im sorry, i mean not sorry about what you said… that came out wrong… I MEAN not come out wrong… jesus christ.” Mike says putting his head in his hands.

Will laughs shaking his head “Its okay.”

“No, its not. I should’ve been there for you and i wasn’t and I guess I was just so self-centered that i- i just couldn’t see it and i feel like an idiot and i- im sorry”

“Mike, you don’t have to be sorry and youre not an idiot… youre not it’s just… I didn’t even understand it myself for the longest time… I think it needed to happen the way it happened. I needed to find find my own way. But, what matters is that you’re still here and you still think we can be friends.”

Mike smiles and nods his head. “Best Friends.”

They smile at each other for a moment.

“Hey Will..?”

“Yeah?”

“Who’s Tammy?”

Will thinks for a moment about Robin.

“No one… its a… a metaphor I guess.” He laughs nervously.

“A metaphor for what?”

Will takes a deep breath. “ I guess, just someone that doesn’t feel the same about me… the person that made me realize that i was… different.”

Mike turns his head away from Will to hide the tears forming in his eyes.

“Mike?” Will asks concerned.

Mike takes a deep breath. “Will, am I your Tammy?”

Will takes a step back. His gut dropping. “What?”

Mike looks down at his hands on the railing. “Am I the person you say doesn’t feel the same way… the person that made you realize you were different?”

“Mike… I… I can’t-”

Mike quickly turns to face Will again, face wet from tears. “Will please. I need to know, because If i am… I don’t wanna be. I don’t want that, Will, I don’t. I don’t wanna be your Tammy. I wanna be your Mike-”

Will interrupts Mike by crashing his lips on Mikes. The two immediately pull away.

“Oh god… Mike… I’m so sorry. I-”

“Stop.” Mike says taking a step closer to Will. “Don’t apologize… Don’t ever apologize for doing that again…” He finishes before pulling Will in by his waist. Their lips meeting again.

[ultralightpoe]

Wrestle Match - Eddie Munson

Dreamweaver's Note: This is a Constellation post which means it's new and I haven't published it before I got hacked. Please enjoy! -Ultralight

⚠️Fae-Bound Triggers: SMUT 18++ ONLY PLS. Dry humping. Language

⏳Length of the Spell: 2.5k+ words

✨What the Stars Foretell: This is literally.... i don't even know. You and eddie are wrestling and well....

✨Starlit Archive ✨ Stardust Inbox ✨Cosmic Events ✨

Enjoy!

The worn fabric of the Eddie’s sofa was a familiar landscape under your back, the faint smell of weed and cheap leather filling the air in the familiar scent that normally filled your hangouts. On the TV screen, some low budget sci fi movie played after Eddie had begged for at least 10 minutes to rent it at the store, but neither of you had paid it any attention for the last twenty minutes. Not a shocker when the two of you were involved. 

The argument had started over something trivial, the merits of practical effects versus the sutupid cgi effects you knew nothing about just that Eddie had large opinions on it, t had quickly devolved into the timeless battle for the remote control.

Eddie loomed over you, his long, wiry frame pinning you down, his knees bracketing your hips. His dark curls brushed against your forehead as he strained, his fingers desperately trying to pry yours from the plastic device as you both cursed under your breaths. 

“Give it up, you traitor!” he growled, a playful smirk twisting his lips. His band t shirt, faded and soft from countless washes, stretched taut across his chest. “The hero’s ship is about to get boarded by space pirates! This is cinematic gold!”

“It’s cinematic garbage and you know it!” you shot back, laughter bubbling in your throat, making it hard to maintain your grip. You bucked beneath him, trying to dislodge his weight, but he was surprisingly solid. “This is why I voted for that documentary on deep sea fish!”

Even Steve Harrington managed to talk you down from that choice at the store but you knew the mention of it would irk Eddie all the more and you’re one goal in this life was to bother your best friend enough to ruin his days for the rest of yours. 

The struggle was a familiar dance. You twisted, he countered, his body shifting to keep you contained only this time, something was different. The energy had shifted, the playful shoves becoming something slower, more deliberate. You ground your hips up to throw him off balance, and instead of moving away, he pressed down, meeting your movement with one of his own.

A sharp, electric jolt shot through you.

The air in the room suddenly felt thick…charged. The sounds of the movie faded into a dull hum. All you could hear was the ragged sound of your own breathing and his, mingling in the scant space between your faces.

Your grip on the remote slackened before it clattered to the floor, forgotten.

His eyes, dark and intense, held yours. The playfulness was gone, replaced by a raw, hungry curiosity. And you could do nothing but wait for him to pull away, maybe clear his throat and try to pretend that none of this had just happened, the game you often played when neither of you wanted to admit this was far more than just a friendship. The game the two of you had been playing for months not. 

Only he didn’t move away. Instead, he settled his weight more fully onto you, and your bodies aligned perfectly. The hard ridge of his jeans pressed firmly against the growing heat between your legs.

A soft, involuntary gasp escaped you.

Oh.

His eyes widened slightly at the sound, his pupils swallowing the warm brown of his irises. He shifted again, a slow, experimental roll of his hips that sent another dizzying wave of sensation straight to your core. The rough denim of his jeans, the solid pressure of him….God, the way he fit against you….t was maddening.

Your hands, which had been braced against his chest to push him away, now curled into the soft cotton of his shirt, holding him there in an attempt to anchor yourself. Needing to feel the solid reality of him as this unreal tension snapped and crackled between you.

“Eddie…” you whispered, his name a question and a plea.

He didn’t answer with words but rather he answered with another deliberate, grinding thrust of his hips, this one harder, more confident. A low groan rumbled in his chest, a sound you felt vibrate through your own body. It was a sound you’d never heard from him before, not in all the years of friendship. It was utterly, devastatingly hot. 

Your head fell back against the armrest, a moan catching in your throat. Your eyes fluttered shut, every nerve ending laser focused on the point where your bodies connected. The friction was exquisite, a building, coiling heat that threatened to consume you. You could feel the muscles of his abdomen tense and relax with each movement, the shift of his thighs against yours.

One of his hands released its grip on the sofa and slid down, his palm flattening against your side, his thumb stroking a slow, hypnotic arc just below your rib cage. The touch burned through your thin shirt. His callouses, from guitar strings, scraping so gently against your skin.

You were clinging to him now, one hand fisted in his shirt, the other sliding up to curl around the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in the sweaty curls at his nape. You pulled him down, not to kiss, but to bring him closer, to eliminate any last bit of space between you. Your foreheads touched, and you could feel the frantic beat of your own pulse thrumming against his skin.

His movements became less rhythmic, more frantic. His breathing was a ragged pant against your cheek. “Fuck,” he muttered, the word a harsh, broken sound. “You feel… fuck.”

You could only whimper in response, arching your back to press yourself more firmly against him, chasing the delicious pressure. The coarse seam of his jeans rubbed against your clit through your own clothing with every thrust, and you saw stars behind your closed eyelids. The world had narrowed to this: the smell of him, the weight of him, the incredible, building tension coiling tighter and tighter in your lower belly.

You were so close to something, teetering on a dizzying edge you’d never approached with him, with anyone, like this. The psychology was simple, stripped bare: years of friendship, of trust, of unspoken things, exploding into pure, physical need. It was a hunger you’d both ignored, now demanding to be fed.

His hand on your side slid lower, fingers splaying over your hip, gripping you hard, holding you in place as he drove against you. His other arm trembled where it was braced next to your head. You could feel the tension singing through his entire body, a mirror of your own.

“Don’t stop,” you breathed, the words barely audible. “Please, Eddie, don’t you dare stop.”

A shudder wracked his frame. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his hot breath fanning over your skin. His hips stuttered, his control visibly fraying. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” he groaned against your throat, his voice thick with a desire you’d only ever dreamed of hearing.

The coil inside you was ready to snap. Pleasure radiated out from your core, a white-hot wave about to break. You were right there, so close, his body the only thing anchoring you to the earth. 

And then his voice, ragged and desperate, whispered right against your ear, “Look at me. I need to see you.”

His voice, a raw, desperate command, shatters the last of your coherent thoughts. Look at me. I need to see you. It was enough to break you completely. 

Your eyelids, heavy with pleasure, flutter open at the command, desperate to please him. Eddie’s face is inches from yours, his dark curls damp with sweat, his intense brown eyes holding yours with a ferocity that steals the air from your lungs. They’re not brooding now as they normally so often are, they’re blazing, a wildfire of pure, unadulterated want. You can see every emotion swirling in their depths….the years of friendship, the shared laughter, the quiet moments of understanding, it was all igniting into this single, consuming hunger.

“Eddie,” you breathe, the word a broken sigh.

His calloused fingers, the ones you’ve watched fly across guitar frets a thousand times, are no longer just tracing patterns. They slide purposefully up your side, under the hem of your shirt, his touch igniting a trail of fire across your sensitive skin. The rough pads of his fingertips scrape gently over your ribs, a tantalizing contrast to the softness of your own flesh, and you arch into the sensation, a desperate, wordless plea for more.

His eyes never leave yours as his hand travels higher, his thumb brushing the underside of your breast. A sharp, ragged gasp catches in your throat. The air in the room is gone, replaced by the thick, charged heat of your shared panting. You can feel the frantic, galloping rhythm of your own heart, and you’re certain he can feel it too, hammering against his chest.

With a look that is both a question and an answer, he slowly, deliberately, pushes the fabric of your shirt up. You don’t stop him. You can’t. You’re paralyzed by the intensity in his gaze, by the sheer physics of his want. The cool air of the trailer hits your heated skin, raising goosebumps, but it’s nothing compared to the searing heat of his palm as he finally, finally cups your breast over your bra.

A low, guttural sound tears from his throat. “Fuck.” His eyes drift shut for a moment, as if he’s committing the feel of you to memory. When they open again, the hunger is staggering. His thumb finds the stiff peak of your nipple through the lace and cotton and brushes over it, once, twice, a slow, torturous rhythm that has you writhing beneath him.

“You have no idea,” he rasps, his voice gravelly and thick, “how many fucking times I’ve thought about this.” His hips give another slow, grinding roll against yours, the thick ridge of his denim clad erection pressing perfectly against the aching center of your need. The dual sensation of his hand on your breast, and the hard pressure between your legs is overwhelming, a sensory overload that pushes you closer to the edge.

Your hands, which had been clinging to his shoulders, slide down. Your fingers fumble for the hem of his faded band t shirt, gripping the soft, worn cotton. “Off,” you demand, your own voice sounding foreign, choked with desire. “Take it off. Ef=ds please.”

A wicked, breathless smirk flashes across his face, a ghost of the playful friend you know, but it’s instantly consumed by the raw need. In one smooth, surprisingly fluid motion, he leans back, kneeling over you, and pulls the shirt over his head. It joins the forgotten remote on the floor.

Your breath hitches. He’s all lean muscle and pale skin, a landscape of sharp angles and wiry strength you’ve only ever glimpsed. A few dark curls dust his chest, trailing down his taut abdomen and disappearing into the waistband of his jeans. He is beautiful, and the sight of him, bare and wanting above you, sends a fresh jolt of pure lust straight through you.

He doesn’t give you long to look. He descends upon you again, his body covering yours, skin to skin this time. The feel of his chest against yours is an electric shock, so intimate it makes your head spin. He captures your mouth with his, but not in a kiss. He buries his face in the curve of your neck instead, his lips and teeth grazing the sensitive skin there as his hand resumes its exploration, slipping under the cup of your bra now.

The direct contact is your undoing. His calloused palm against your bare breast, the rough scrape of his rings against your tender nipple, it’s too much and not enough all at once. A broken cry escapes you as your back bows off the couch. Your hands scramble over the hot skin of his back, feeling the muscles there tense and shift with every movement of his hips, every stroke of his hand.

“Eddie, please,” you beg, though you’re not even sure what you’re begging for. More. Less. Everything. Nothing. 

He understands. His fingers hook into the front clasp of your bra, and with a deft flick, it comes undone. He pulls the loosened garment away, tossing it aside without a second glance. His dark eyes drink in the sight of you, bare and trembling beneath him, and the look of sheer, reverent awe on his face is the most erotic thing you’ve ever seen.

“Christ, you’re perfect,” he groans, lowering his head.

His mouth is hot and wet on your skin, trailing a searing path from your collarbone down to your breast. His tongue flicks over your nipple once, a teasing, lightning-fast touch that makes you jerk and cry out. Then he takes you into his mouth, sucking deeply, and the world completely whites out.

The sensation is everywhere, the pull of his mouth, the rough scratch of his stubble against your sensitive skin, the relentless, rhythmic grinding of his hips. You are unraveling, completely and utterly. One of your hands fists in his wild curls, holding him to you, while the other claws at his back, desperate for an anchor in the storm he’s unleashed.

You can feel your climax building, a terrifying, wonderful pressure coiling tighter and tighter in your core. The sounds falling from your lips are incoherent, just his name and pleas and gasps. He switches his attention to your other breast, lavishing it with the same desperate hunger, his hips never ceasing their perfect, maddening friction.

“I’m close,” you pant, the admission torn from you. “So close.”

He lifts his head, his lips swollen, his eyes glazed with lust. He shifts his weight, and you whimper at the loss of friction, but then his hand is there, sliding down your stomach, past the waistband of your pants. His fingers dip lower, past the elastic of your underwear, and find you. Hot. Soaking. Desperate for him.

The touch of his fingers on your bare, slick flesh is an explosion of sensation. You buck against his hand, a wordless sob of relief and need. He lets out a shuddering breath, his forehead dropping to yours as his fingers circle your clit, his touch achingly deliberate.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, his voice ragged against your lips. “I know. Me too. Come on, let go. I’ve got you.”

His words are the final key. The coil snaps. Pleasure detonates through you, a blinding, white hot wave that crashes over you, pulling you under. Your entire body seizes, convulsing around nothing as you cry out, the sound muffled against his shoulder. He holds you through it, his fingers working you gently, drawing out every last shuddering ripple of your orgasm until you’re boneless and trembling beneath him.

As the aftershocks subside, you’re achingly aware of the hard, urgent press of him against your hip. His breathing is ragged, his body trembling with the effort of holding back. He looks down at you, his eyes dark with a mixture of awe and desperate need. His voice is a rough, broken whisper, laced with a vulnerability you’ve never heard from him before.

“You’re amazing.”

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