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perlelune · 7 months

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Training Wheels | Coriolanus Snow | i.

Your mother's macabre work never appealed to you as you always preferred the comfort of your books, but when her apprentice takes a special interest in you, your safe, quiet world is flipped upside down.

Warnings: DUB-CON, NON-CON, Gaul!Reader, Shy Reader, Manipulation, Parental Neglect, Drinking, Peer Pressure, Hazing, University set, Loss of Virginity, Dumbification, Insecurities, Abusive Relationship, Degradation, Suicide Attempt

This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.

𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

Your hands quake around the bucket of mice as you stand above the terrarium. The bright-skinned creatures inside writhe around, in anticipation of their next meal. You peer inside the metal bucket at the little mice with their cute whiskers and beady eyes. Your heart twinges. They will soon meet their end, courtesy of you. But what else can be done? The snakes need to eat. Because if they were not fed, the colorful reptiles would break through the glass in search of the food they were denied. You used to have nightmares of it as a child. The lab crawling with snakes, their neon scales filling every corner.

Natural order restored as every warm-blooded creature in their vicinity turns into prey.

You suppress a shudder. While that never happened, you can’t erase the slight chill dancing through your bones whenever you approach the terrarium.

Other lab assistants have offered to take on the task, noting your discomfort. You’ve turned each of them down. Mother has given you this job ten years ago. A gift, she called it. More of a challenge quite frankly. A way to test your nerves, that she always deemed too delicate. She never expected you to go through with it. “Hippity, hoppity, little one,” she mockingly sang that day as you fidgeted before the ceiling-high glass case filled with snakes to the brim. Their scales were a deep green back then. Nothing like the pink, yellow and blue shades they don today. A plethora of mutations throughout the years has made them what they are now.

You tip the bucket against the edge of the glass case, abandoning the poor rodents to their fates. The reptiles are quick to dive upon them in a heap. The mice’s helpless squeaks reach a peak, piercing your ears until they’re silenced quickly. You watch, stomach tight while the snakes open their maws and swallow the furred animals whole. The spectacle will never sit well with you.

Still, you school your features and steady your heart. Mother’s voice echoes through your head.

Emotions are a weakness. They must be harnessed, contained.

Harnessing your emotions. A feat you could never achieve. One that makes you a failed experiment in Mother’s eyes. A waste of space. A disappointment.

You start climbing down the ladder to gather more mice from their cages. Your insides clutch at the prospect of gently picking them up only to escort them to a sorrowful fate.

The train of your thoughts is interrupted when voices erupt from the other end of the long hall.

Recognizing them, you freeze. Panic floods your veins. You haste down the ladder, the bucket clattering as you discard it on the floor.

You scurry inside the nearest office and duck beneath a table.

The voices grow in the lab. You eavesdrop, allowing you to catch snippets of the conversation. They’re discussing Mother’s latest experiments with the Avox subjects. One succumbed to a chromosome translocation with a wolf mutt. The finer details of replacing the subject and what can be learned from the results are discussed in cold, clinical fashion. No regard for what was a human life, now lost, is granted. The Avox was nothing more than a slab of meat meant for slaughter. The slow, barbaric kind.

Ice seeps through your veins. You loathe visiting that room, the one displaying Mother’s human experiments on unfortunate Avoxes. Their beseeching gazes. Their warped pleas parroted by the jabberjays above them. You almost passed out every time you were tasked with monitoring their electrolyte status or switching their intravenous tubes.

Head rising from under the desk, you allow yourself a peek.

Mother’s here, of course. You recognized her voice right away. Then, there’s…him.

You let your gaze rest on him, never having the chance to observe him like that. Steal a glance from the back of the lecture hall. Get a glimpse of him amidst his crowd of friends, always in his element of course, owning every room he’s in.

Never before did you get to just look at him.

The first thing that strikes you is how beautiful he is. Handsome in that dazzling way the pretty boys in the sappy books smuggled from the Districts your mother berates you for reading are.

She calls them stupid. For you however, they are your only escape from the dismal humdrum of the Capitol. Fictional worlds that shield you from the harshness of reality. Your saving grace.

Platinum locks combed back from his face. Eyes as blue as the sky. Sharp, angular features.

Coriolanus Snow.

Behind the safety of the glass panel, openly admiring him is easier. In fact, you find it almost hard to peel your eyes away.

No wonder half the girls in your cohort can’t stop gushing about him, how there’s an irresistible, slight air of danger hovering around him since his brief time as a peacekeeper. Even Io Jasper noticed it. And Io never notices anything that she can’t wedge between two glass slides and examine under a microscope.

Awe mingles with envy in your chest. This is who your mother chose as her unofficial successor. The worthy, cool-headed apprentice she has yearned for years. She’s been through so many people, each more eager to please and impress than the last. None ever fit. Not even you. Especially not you. Nobody except for him.

No one had ever passed your mother’s crooked tests before Coriolanus Snow came along.

Blue eyes travel upward, the Snow heir seeming to sense the scrutiny upon him.

“Is someone here?” he says, pushing forward.

Your pulse quickens at the sound of Coriolanus Snow’s deep voice, disturbingly close. You crouch to hide from view.

Mother’s exasperated breath reaches you from behind the glass panel.

“Don’t worry. It’s probably my daughter. I’m afraid she’s quite useless,” she says matter-of-factly.

Your heart sinks. Face warm with embarrassment, you shrink beneath the desk. You bring your knees to your chest. Hearing such words shouldn’t affect you. Not after all these years. Yet it does. A pointed reminder that you can never measure up. That you’re a glaring mistake, lucky to even be allowed to wander the halls of the Citadel and be given a semblance of responsibility, however small.

That you’re not enough, will never be enough.

That you should never have been brought into the world.

After getting caught, you file away your embarrassment and make yourself small. Even smaller than usual. It's not too hard. When you aren’t working at the lab, your schedule consists of attending lectures and studying for long hours at the library. It keeps you busy enough to find excuses to skip a few hours at the lab. After all, midterms are only a few weeks away. They require your entire focus. You can’t fail and add more of a shameful stain to Mother’s name.

It’s why you ramped up your studying since the Academy. You were painfully average then, tragically unremarkable, not even ranking high enough to get your own tribute to mentor in the tenth Hunger Games. The shriveling stare she cast upon you the day of the reaping after Dean Highbottom failed to speak your name is burned into your mind forever. That day, you failed Mother again. You swore to yourself to never let it happen again afterwards.

This year, you will study harder, until your eyes fall off if necessary. If you can pass every class with flying colors and perhaps even aim for the valedictorian spot, you can prove Mother that your existence isn’t a complete and utter waste. It might be a lofty goal for you, but you’ve been ranking higher with every test these last few weeks.

For days, your path does not cross Coriolanus Snow’s again. Your peace is maintained. You get to almost forget how piercing his blue eyes were that day, even from behind the glass panel.

Today, you don’t expect things to veer away from your usual routine. You sit in the back of the lecture hall as is your habit. Students pour inside at a sluggish pace while you peruse your notes from the previous class. They barely make sense, even to you. Defense economics has never been your favorite subject, possibly your most hated in fact, and paying attention during Professor Cloudsbane’s class is even more of a challenge. More than once, you dozed off, the complicated concepts struggling to fully sink into your mind.

Keeping up with this class is twice as much work than all the other ones. Even Mother’s bioengineering and military strategy courses do not give you so much grief. Concepts she’s drilled into you since childhood are easier to digest.

Which is why you’re flabbergasted when the results of last week’s test are passed around and you receive yours. In disbelief, you blink at the paper multiple times.

It’s the highest grade you’ve gotten the entire semester. Possibly the highest one in the class. You bask in the private, secret victory. You’re always so behind. You plan on enjoying that tiny moment. You hug the test to your chest, a smile creeping upon your lips.

“So what score did you get?”

Your head whips up, the sudden voice startling you out of your thoughts.

Bright cobalt orbs fill your sight.

You gape in disbelief. Coriolanus Snow.

Lost in your thoughts, you didn’t realize he and his group of friends have elected to occupy the seats in the row before yours today. You’re stunned. They’re usually sitting somewhere in the middle of the hall, not quite at the front but close enough so that Clemensia can comfortably harass the professor with a ceaseless string of questions as she’s known to do.

“So?” he asks again. His eyes dart down. “Your grade?”

Your throat knots as you gawk at him. When you don’t reply, he huffs out a laugh and swipes the piece of paper from your hand. You’re too flabbergasted by his actions to even react.

Empty hands hanging before you, you watch him purse his lips as he inspects your paper.

“Hm, top grade. Figured.” His eyes twinkle. “Expected from Dr. Gaul’s daughter, I suppose.”

“You almost had it, Coryo. But she beat you,” Clemensia teases, wiggling her eyebrows. Meanwhile, Ivy Briarose, Clemensia’s close friend, giggles at her comment.

You steal a glance at his test; he’s holding it next to yours. Surprise surges through you. There’s only half a point between your grade and his. Just half a point…but still. Coriolanus always aces Professor Cloudsbane’s tests. Him getting the top grade is often expected. But this time, the Snow heir falls behind…you.

You can hardly believe it. A sliver of pride flutters through you. The fruits of your labor are beginning to show.

“If you don’t watch out, she’ll steal the top student spot from you,” Livia chimes in. You can tell the blonde is reveling in this, that strange animosity between her and Coriolanus on full display.

Coriolanus’ jaw ticks, his tight-lipped smile unfaltering as he studies you.

“I suppose she could,” he utters softly. Despite his tranquil expression and the smile pulling his lips, a peculiar unease settles in your bones. You shift in your chair, goosebumps blooming across your flesh.

He hands you your test back without a word. You’re relieved when he turns and the class starts.

Still, even with his back turned, the weight of his sizzling scrutiny doesn’t part from your skin.

The class proceeds, the words pouring from your professor’s lips a befuddling heap in your ears as usual. You jot everything down, acutely aware you’ll need several hours if not more than that to decipher everything he said. Your mind already throbs at the prospect.

You sneak a glance at the row in front of you. It’s mostly filled with the top students, most of them mentors that last year at the Academy. Some of them aren’t even taking notes. Only Coriolanus sporadically does. He appears to have no issue keeping up with this class, unlike you who drowned in the first few minutes.

You’re relieved when the lecture reaches its end. Your mind is on the cusp of overflow. You desperately need a break.

You pick up your things and rush to the exit. In the hallway, some guy bumps into you from behind, sending the books in your arms flying across the floor. He doesn’t say anything to you and you bend to pick up your books. Tears press behind your eyes. This is nothing. It shouldn’t make you blink back tears. It’s not the first time someone’s treated you like you were invisible.

“Hey, apologize.”

Your eyes drift skyward. Stumped, you watch Coriolanus grip the boy who bumped into you by his shoulder.

“What?” the guy replies, confusion scrunching his features.

“You bumped into her. I said ‘apologize’,” Coriolanus articulates, as if he were addressing a particularly slow child. When the guy tries to leave, rolling his eyes, the blond squeezes him tighter. Tension flickers in the air. They trade looks and doubts creep on the guy’s face, his face blanching.

He clears his throat and whirls to you.

“Sorry,” he blurts out.

You shake your head. “It’s fine.”

He turns, likely hoping to leave again, but Coriolanus tuts him, pointing at your books, still scattered across the floor.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” he says, arching his brow.

The guy unleashes a sigh but hunkers down to collect all of your books. He gives them to you in a neat pile as you stare at the spectacle, mouth agape.

“Thank you,” you mumble.

He nods and saunters off, avoiding Coriolanus’ eyes.

Coriolanus grabs your hand, helping you to your feet. The pads of his fingers are rougher than you expect, calluses pressing against your soft skin. Heat rushes to your cheeks as you rise.

You’re not sure what to say, your nerves flaring beneath his stare. But you suppose you should thank him. While you struggle standing up for yourself, he just did it for you. So you mumble the words under your breath and begin heading in the opposite direction.

With his long legs, Coriolanus easily keeps up with your hasty strides. Your heart skips a beat as he falls in step with you.

“I feel strange asking this but…” He leans above your shoulder to whisper, “Are you avoiding me?”

“I-I’m not,” you stammer, your pulse racing with the lie.

The blond chuckles.

“You’re walking awfully fast for someone who’s not avoiding me.”

“I’m just running late to my next class.”

“What about your mom’s lab?” he challenges. “You were hiding from me, weren’t you?”

Your lips tighten. If only he’d drop it. You don’t want to revisit that awkward moment. Everything about it makes your stomach ache.

“I…wasn’t,” you lie, your voice barely above a breath. Your face warms as a smile plays upon Coriolanus’ lips. You halt in your tracks, hugging your books against your chest as you pivot to him. You bashfully meet his gaze. “I was just a little spooked.”

He tilts his head, mirth swimming in his cobalt orbs.

“Spooked? By me? Do I scare you, angel?”

The pet name, uttered like a caress, sets your heart aflutter.

“No,” you mutter. Another lie. And it’s like he’s picked up on it, his soft, pink lips stretching even more.

“It wasn’t nice what she said,” he says abruptly.

You blink in confusion.

“I’m sorry?”

“Dr. Gaul, about you. It wasn’t nice.”

You shrug. “I’m used to it. It’s fine.”

He approaches you. The scent of his pricey cologne engulfs your senses. It’s masculine but the faint scent of roses lingers underneath, as if stubbornly clinging to him.

His voice lowers, his gaze entrapping yours.

“It’s not fine. You work so hard to make her see you. You’re a good daughter.” You don’t realize his hand’s moved to your face until one of his fingers traces the curve of your cheek. Your heart races at the sudden touch. Coriolanus’ thumb drags down to your chin, his attention landing on your bottom lip. He smiles. “Hard work should be praised, rewarded even.”

Disarmed by his closeness and the strange words rolling off his tongue, you retreat.

You readjust the books between your arms.

“I s-should go. My next class is about to start.”

His words interrupt you.

“Hey, why don’t you have lunch with me and the others today?”

Your stomach clutches. You think about Coriolanus’ usual crowd, a bunch of kids from wealthy, influential families, popular and revered. Clemensia Dovecote. Livia Cardew. Ivy Briarose. Hilarius Heavensbee. Festus Creed. Most of them now hold the admiration of their peers for having survived the chaos the Tenth Hunger Games were.

You’d never fit in with them. In fact, you never did. Coriolanus must know that. Is he trying to punish you for eavesdropping on his conversation with your mother the other day?

“I-I never talked to any of them,” you answer, panic swelling in your gut.

His brows crumple. “If you don’t talk to anyone, you’ll never make friends.”

“That’s okay. I don’t need friends,” you retaliate.

“It’s always useful, having friends,” he rasps. “The right connections, they can get you far.”

You anxiously roll your bottom lip between your teeth.

“I’m not good at…making conversation.”

“We’re having a conversation now,” he says, laughing.

As you mull over what he just said, a small smile tugs your lips.

“I guess we are.”

His gaze sharpens. “That’s a pretty smile. I’d love to see it more often.”

His low, soft voice sends chills through your spine.

Coriolanus’ long lashes droop as he gauges your expression.

“I’d be disappointed if I didn't see your face, angel.”

You fidget, your eyes sinking to the floor before rising to meet his again.

“I don’t know if that’s okay… for me to show up like that.”

“I’m inviting you, so of course it’s okay.”

He speaks like it’s a given, like whatever he says goes. His confidence unsettles you.

You fall quiet, weighing your options. There’s something in Coriolanus’ silky voice that makes it hard to say no, but you’d hate being the unwanted guest at the popular kids’ table.

Still, the expectation on his face makes you not want to let him down.

“I’m not hearing a yes.”

“Y-Yes,” you stutter belatedly.

A broad smile spreads on his handsome face.

“Perfect. See you at lunch then, angel.”

As he strolls away, your feet remain glued to the floor, your mind lingering in disbelief of what just occurred.

#coriolanus snow x reader #dark!coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow #dark!coriolanus snow x reader #tbosas fanfiction #hunger games #the ballad of songbirds and snakes

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er-cryptid · 2 years

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#studyblr #notes #medblr #medical notes #med notes #y chromosome #y chromosome notes #chromosomes #chromosome notes #development #embryology #embryology notes #genetics #genetics notes #notes on genetics #x chromosome #x chromosome notes

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corroded-hellfire · 3 months

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As You Wish - Eddie Munson x Reader, Part 9

Collaboration with the one and only Dr. @munson-blurbs 💛

Summary: Eddie's finally moving into a place of his own. It's fun and exciting but at the same time, it makes things more real for the boys.

Note: It is here! A happy As You Wish Wednesday to you all

Warnings: talk of divorce, Brittany

Words: 7.4k

[As You Wish masterlist]

Eddie usually hated his government name. He’s Eddie, not Edward; the latter too formal and a reminder of when he’d get reprimanded at school.

But today, as the ballpoint pen glides over the paper, he’s never been happier to be Edward Munson.

“All right,” the leasing manager chirps, procuring a key from her back pocket, “congratulations on your new apartment, Mr. Munson.”

“Thank you.” It’s bittersweet; his first place without Brittany, without his boys as permanent fixtures. But he no longer needs to couch surf or rely on anyone else. This is his place, and though it’s not quite the house he once lived in, it’s home.

The Harrington household is in its usual state of controlled chaos when Eddie arrives. His sons are running around with Steve and Nancy’s three oldest kids on their front lawn, so engaged in a rousing game of freeze tag that they don’t even notice the car pulling up.

You spot him right away, greeting him with an excited wave. One arm stays wrapped around Mia, who offers a big smile when she sees her favorite uncle.

“Ryan! Luke! Dad’s here!”

The boys grumble, clearly upset about their game being cut short, and the Harringtons cheer triumphantly.

“We won! We won!” Theo cheers.

Luke shakes his head. “No, we’re just pausing until next time.”

“Nuh-uh! You guys forfeit, which means we win!”

You sigh. “We’ll call it a tie,” you decide, not waiting for a reply. Nancy comes out of the house to pay you, scooping up her youngest.

“Did we avoid a fight?” She whispers to you.

“Barely,” you confirm, tucking the bills into your front pocket. “I’m hoping to make our escape before it escalates.”

Nancy nods. “Godspeed.” She ushers Natalie, Theo, and Danny back into the house, bidding Eddie and his boys farewell, but not before Luke sticks his tongue in his friend’s direction.

“Saw that,” Ryan mutters. So did you, but you lack the energy to reprimand the youngest Munson, so you act oblivious.

This evening was the final celebration of your birthday week—the cherry on top that it seemed the boys wouldn’t let you go without: them treating you to a McDonald’s date. Ryan and Luke had both chipped in some pocket change they had in a piggy bank or hidden underneath a mattress. Though, you wouldn’t be surprised if Luke scrounged some of his from between couch cushions and between seats in his dad’s truck as well.

With their donations appreciated, Eddie pocketed the money and told everyone to order whatever they wanted. That’s dangerous territory with the two rugrats around, but it’s a special occasion.

The order in total managed to fit on four trays, which the guys said they had handled and would head off to find a table while you wait for the milkshakes at the counter.

As you rest your hip against the cool metal island that contains condiments and utensils, you hear familiar giggles coming from the tables around the corner. They bring an instant smile to your face. There’s a lot of turmoil going on in these kids’ lives right now, so the fact that they get to have these moments of peace and joy with their dad is very important. It’s part of the reason you told Eddie that it might be better to take Ryan and Luke shopping for their new rooms on his own. None of the three Munson men were having this, though. Every single one of them trusted your opinion far more than anyone with an XY chromosome in your little gang.

“Milkshakes?”

The worker’s voice pulls you out of your head and you give her a polite smile as you pick the cardboard carrier up off the counter, holding two vanilla shakes for you and Ryan, a chocolate for Eddie, and a strawberry for Luke. You set off in the direction the previous laughter came from and just as you turn the corner are greeted by the sight of the back of your boyfriend’s head in all its curly glory. Thing One and Thing Two are on the other side of the table throwing fries at one another, trying to catch them in their mouths.

“Come on, try me,” Eddie says, tilting his head back a bit. Ryan throws a fry first, but it bounces off his father’s cheek. Luke then throws a fry that is way too long and was never going to make it across the table. You watch in silence as the boys make a few more valiant attempts, Ryan able to sink one in eventually. The shakes are getting melty now though, so it’s time to barge in on their game.

When you walk over to the table and set the drink caddy down, you notice Eddie’s expression goes from playful to remorseful. Unfortunately, it doesn’t take your brain long to make the connection that this is something Brittany probably would’ve berated him for in the past—acting like a child and goofing around with the boys. It’s preposterous to even think of, really.

Instead of assuring Eddie with comforting words, you just slide onto the red vinyl booth next to him and nudge his arm with your elbow.

“My turn.”

Juxtaposed with the fun dinner you just had is the quiet car ride back to Brittany’s house to drop the boys off. Seeing the two happy little moods dampened weighs on Eddie’s heart, so he tries to get them engaged in another fun topic.

“Are you guys excited to pick out stuff for your new rooms tomorrow?” he asks, grinning at them through the rear-view mirror.

“Do I get, like…a new bed?” Luke asks.

“Sure do,” Eddie says as he flips the blinker on to turn into his old neighborhood. “And whatever kind of sheets you want to put on it.”

“Can I get ones with Spider-Man? Or Batman? Or Spider-Man and Batman?”

Eddie chuckles. “We’ll see what they have.”

That seems to satisfy Luke, at least for the moment, which is all you need. Eddie takes a deep breath as he pulls up to Brittany’s house—his former house. That twinge of pain never seems to dissipate, even though the end of his marriage was inevitable, the loss still hurts. Ryan doesn’t give him much time to dwell on things, though.

“Can I get a PlayStation for my room?”

Eddie barks a laugh and rubs a hand over his eyes. Before he can open his mouth to say no, Luke has to add his own outlandish request.

“Can I get a dog?!”

Your boyfriend just looks at you, silently begging you to take over before his patience completely runs out.

As you unbuckle your seatbelt, you casually announce, “No additional living beings until further notice.”

Luke grumbles, but ultimately relents, climbing out of his booster seat and running up to the door where Brittany is waiting.

“Mom!” Ryan and Luke yell out in unison. The older boy’s enthusiastic grin falters a bit when he notices the fakeness in his mom’s smile, but the younger boy thankfully remains oblivious.

“We’re gonna pick out stuff for our new rooms tomorrow!” Luke chirps.

Brittany’s perfectly plucked brows pinch together in a mix of confusion and her usual perpetual annoyance. “Tomorrow?” she asks, her voice far from genuine. “I thought we would spend tomorrow together, guys.”

“Britt, you said tomorrow you had that work thing, remember?” Eddie reminds her, a smug smile on his face. They both know damn well she just wanted to get out of taking the boys to the toy store when Luke originally asked the other day.

Brittany glares at Eddie but Luke shrugs and walks away.

“Another time, Mom.” He says casually, and something inside you breaks. You can feel it in Eddie, too. Luke’s unbothered attitude is too natural, like he’s accustomed to his mother constantly breaking their plans.

Speaking up will only incur the wrath of Brittany, so you stay silent, leaving Eddie to maneuver the rest of the awkward conversation.

“See you guys tomorrow,” he calls out to his sons, giving a cordial wave to Brittany. She doesn’t return it, closing the door in your faces.

Eddie turns to you. “That could have gone worse, I guess.”

You scoff. “Yeah, she could’ve turned into one of those Demogorgon things from your D&D campaigns.”

“Now that would be entertaining.” He takes your hand in his, his rings pressing against your fingers.

The car ride home will almost certainly involve a discussion about the way the boys’ faces fell when they saw Brittany and how to undo the damage of her bailing on plans. But for now, you take the moment to relish the love between you and Eddie.

“Look at that lamp! It looks like a jellyfish!”

It seems as if every other thing that Luke sees as the four of you walk up and down the aisles of the store catches his eye. If his new room incorporated all these new interesting finds of his, the small bedroom would look like the storage space of an eccentric car enthusiast who has an odd pension for nautical memorabilia.

“I thought you wanted a Hot Wheels room,” Eddie says for what feels like the fortieth time.

“I do, that lamp just looks cool,” Luke says. “Hey! Can I get one of those rugs that looks like there are roads on it so I can drive my cars all around?”

“If we see one,” his dad tells him.

Luke may only be five, but he already has expensive tastes. Ryan seems to be the opposite on this shopping trip—he doesn’t seem to know what he wants. None of the movie or character themed bed sets thrilled him, and there wasn’t a sport or activity he wanted highlighted. The only things the elder Munson brother had in the cart so far were a set of two black bookshelves to hang on the walls and a package of glow in the dark stars to stick to his ceiling.

On the other hand, Luke had already collected Hot Wheels sheets, Hot Wheels curtains, a nightstand that looked like three tires stacked one on top of the other, a stuffed German Shepherd (since he can’t get a real dog, he said), a Scooby Doo calendar, and a set of four Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle posters. The young boy had also tried to add an espresso machine to the cart, which was immediately halted by both you and Eddie.

“What in the world do you need an espresso machine for?” you had asked.

“For when I have guests,” Luke replied simply.

“Oh, right,” Eddie said, raising his eyebrows. “Because I think that much caffeine is exactly what Mia Harrington needs.”

Luke scoffed and rolled his eyes as if his dad thought he was stupid. “Well, I wouldn’t give any to a baby.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose between your thumb and forefinger, massaging gently. As grateful as you are that you have this opportunity to shop with Eddie and his boys, you can’t deny that your patience is swiftly draining.

“Luke, why are you pouting?”

The voice doesn’t belong to you, Eddie, or even Ryan. No, this shrill, weasley voice could only belong to one person.

Brittany stands before you, a gaudy pocketbook tucked underneath her arm. Her lips curl into what you can only consider an attempted smile, though it still makes your insides curdle.

“C’mere.” She motions to her youngest son, pulling him into a too-tight hug. You watch him squirm out of her grasp.

“Britt,” Eddie says through gritted teeth, “I thought you were busy today.”

Brittany shrugs nonchalantly, as though she hasn’t just completely derailed your afternoon. “Moved some things around.” She grins at Ryan and Luke. “What are we buying today?”

We. Like she was paying for any of it.

You swallow your frustration and shoot her an equally feigned smile. “Luke’s getting stuff for his Hot Wheels room, and Ryan still needs a reading lamp.”

“I wanted a race car bed, but Daddy said it was too ‘spensive. So, I’m gonna get Hot Wheels sheets instead,” Luke proudly announces.

Brittany furrows her brows in mock confusion. “But how can you have a Hot Wheels room with a regular bed?” She cocks her head, looking at Eddie. “I mean, you can’t splurge a little? I’m sure you have a guitar you could pawn.”

Eddie bites his lower lip so hard that you swear you see a speck of blood form. He’s holding himself back; being in public and in the presence of his kids keeps him from launching into an expletive-laden tirade.

“I’m not pawning a guitar for a bed he’s going to outgrow in a few years. Especially not when we came up with a good compromise.” His tone is terse, clipped.

Brittany rolls her eyes. “I’m sure the court will love to hear that,” she mutters under her breath, still loud enough for you and Eddie to hear. The boys, luckily, have dashed ahead.

Your instinct is to bite back with a snarky comment about the court being much more interested in every important event she’s missed, but you restrain yourself. This isn’t your battle to fight, and any remark will just make Eddie’s life harder. Instead, you act as though she hadn’t said a word as you all catch up to the kids.

Not one to be ignored, Brittany turns to her oldest son. “What about you, Ry? What did you pick out?” Her frown deepens when Ryan shows her the three items in the cart belonging to him. “That’s it? It’s like they forgot about you!”

“We didn’t—” you start, watching hurt seep into Ryan’s eyes, but Eddie quickly squeezes your hand. Don’t play into it. You know her comment stung him, too, and that it was even more difficult for him not to defend himself.

There was no need for either of you to say anything, because Ryan is ultimately the one who speaks up.

“I’m still deciding what I want. No one forgot about me—not like how you forgot about my holiday concert.”

Brittany’s cheeks go beet red, her jaw clenched. “You know what? I need to get going now, anyway.” She glares at Eddie. “Drop them off at my house when you’re done.” With that, she walks away.

Your gaze immediately drops to Ryan, who just stands there as though shocked by his own comeback. “I…I didn’t mean to…” Tears well up in his eyes, and he blinks them back before they can stain his cheeks. “She just…”

Eddie puts one hand on his shoulder. He takes a deep breath, looking up, and you know he’s weighing his options. He can harp on Brittany’s insufficiencies, or he can do the right thing. Be a role model.

“I know, bud. It’s hard. Especially when we’re angry.” He gives a soft smile. “You’ve got that Munson temper—quiet till it boils over. But you can apologize to Mom when you see her later.”

Ryan nods somberly.

Eddie glances at you for help, and you carefully oblige. “That doesn’t mean that it’s okay for her to miss your concerts,” you say. “But you can talk about how it makes you feel before those emotions get to be too much.”

“Maybe we should go home,” Eddie says, but Ryan shakes his head. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” Ryan swipes at his misty eyes. “I wanna pick out a bed. Maybe one that has the drawers underneath.”

You grin. “More storage space for books?”

Ryan nods, and Eddie grins. “Whose kid is this? Certainly too smart to be mine.”

You want to ask him what he kept stored in his bedroom drawers, but refrain at the last second. Perhaps some things are better left unknown.

Just one aisle over, Ryan’s attention snags on a bed that has his eyes widening.

“It has a desk, too!” he says, taking off towards the bed at the end of the aisle.

“Whoa!” Luke echoes, following behind his big brother.

You slip your hand into Eddie’s as he pushes the cart forward with the other hand. Even though the boys are preoccupied with the piece of furniture, you keep your voice low.

“I’m so proud of how you handled that,” you tell your boyfriend. “I was ready to scoop Ryan into my arms and comfort him and tell him everything is okay, but you did the right thing.”

Eddie sighs and gives your hand a small shake. “Shit. When did I become a grown up?” With another, more dramatic sigh, Eddie shakes his head. “Gotta fix that.”

Before you can ask what he means, he leans over and licks up the side of your face, tongue flat and hot against your skin. You squeal, taken by surprise and duck your head down away from him.

“You’re a child!” you say through a heavy bout of laughter.

“Damn straight, baby.”

When you look up ahead, the boys are now watching you two, your squeal having gained their attention.

“You guys know that your dad is bonkers?” you ask with a playful smirk on your face.

“Uh huh!” Luke declares proudly. “We’re the Goof Troop!”

“Oh, are we?” Eddie questions. He spins the cart out of his way, like a car doing donuts, and hoists Luke up, throwing him over his shoulder. “I think you’re the goofiest of the goofs.”

Luke laughs as his orange t-shirt rides up his back. You adjust it for him before leaving the two guys with the matching curls to their antics and join Ryan over by the bed.

“You like this one, huh?” You wrap an arm around the elder brother’s shoulders and give a gentle squeeze.

Ryan nods. “I wanted a desk in my old room. I mean, the room at the old hou—uh, Mom’s house. But my room is too small for one. But this is perfect! I crawl up top, there’s my bed! I come back down, it’s a desk!”

His excitement is palpable, and you can’t help but lean in and press a kiss to the top of his head. God, you’d give this kid the world if you could. Luke too, of course. They’re both such great kids and it’s moments like these where you realize just how lucky you were to meet this family.

Brittany’s abrupt departure, while welcome, also means that the boys will be accompanying you and Eddie while you pick out his furniture. Or, as Luke so aptly puts it, “the boring stuff.”

The youngest Munson lasts all of six minutes before he starts whining. Your patience has already worn thin from Brittany’s antics, and you have to take a deep breath before you respond.

“Luke, we picked out your stuff, now it’s Daddy’s t—”

Tears well up in his eyes. “But I don’t wanna! I wanna go home!”

You and Eddie share a glance. Between your schedule and his, there are few opportunities for you to shop together. You’re trying to remember what days you’ll be free when you hear Ryan pipe up.

“We should play The Price is Right!” He exclaims. “Y’know, that show we watch when we’re home sick? We can guess the price of Dad’s furniture and see who gets the closest.”

Luke ponders this for just a moment before nodding emphatically. You and Eddie exhale twin sighs of relief, and you make a mental note to thank Ryan later.

The boys guess on everything from bed sheets to sofas, with Luke’s answers only getting more outlandish. There’s no way he thinks a TV stand costs $80 million…right?

Eddie chuckles as he watches his sons over his shoulder. They’re looking up at a chandelier, Ryan’s lips pursed, and Luke with his head tilted to the side like a confused puppy. Your boyfriend shakes his head in amusement as he faces forward again, pushing the now-heavy cart further down the aisle.

“I kinda like that lamp,” Eddie says, taking a closer step to the display sets blinding you with their high wattage all aimed in your direction. “Oh shit, that’s nice, too. Babe, what do you think?”

Coming up beside him, you loop your arm through his and press a few kisses to his shoulder.

“Sweetheart, it’s your apartment,” you remind him. “You deserve to make this place your own.” Giving a soft shake of your head, you wrinkle up your nose in a way that Eddie finds adorable. “You don’t want your girlfriend playing interior decorator.”

Eddie raises his eyebrows and angles his head down to meet your eyes. “Am I allowed to ask for my girlfriend’s opinion?”

“Of course.”

“Okaaay,” Eddie says, playfully pulling you in front of him so he can wrap his arms around your middle and run the tips of his calloused fingers over the soft material of your pink shirt. “So, girlfriend, which of the two lamps do you like better?”

The one that first caught Eddie’s eyes was a simple, basic design, but who really needs more than that? The black, twisting metal that twines up to an off-white lampshade is elegant and something you can absolutely see being in Eddie’s new living room. The second lamp is a little more ostentatious, though it’s certainly pretty. The silver body of the lamp resembles an hourglass, rounded edges topped off with a round white lampshade. It’s nice, but not something you can see Eddie being really happy with.

“I like the first one,” you tell him.

“That’s the one I was leaning towards,” he says. Eddie presses a kiss to your cheek before unwinding his arms from around your body so he can grab two of the lamp boxes to add to the cart. “Come on, shortstops. Keep up.”

The boys trail at a small distance, calling out numbers and pointing at various objects on shelves they’ll never be able to correctly identify prices on. With one hand, Eddie pushes the cart forward, and he lays his other hand, large and warm, against the small of your back as you walk.

“Now, this next part in particular is what I really want your opinion on.” Eddie’s words are just above a whisper and the ghosting of his lips against the shell of your ear sends a chill down your spine. There’s no need for you to look, you already know your boyfriend is smirking at the reaction he has on you.

You turn the corner with the cart and when you see the next aisle, your face feels warm. Of course this is what he wants your input on the most. The bedding department.

“What exactly would you like my help with?” you ask, feigning as much innocence as you possibly can.

The aisles of bed linens, bed frames, mattresses, and pillows seem to stretch out for a mile before you. You don’t see this ending without Eddie severely working you up.

“Well,” Eddie says with a shrug, far too innocuous for the thoughts you know are running through his mind. “We found things for the boys’ rooms, but none for mine yet. And since I’m really hoping you’ll be spending a good amount of time in my bedroom, I’d like you to be comfortable there.”

“Sounds reasonable enough.” You don’t meet his eye, instead strolling closer to the mattresses, to get a better look at them.

“Oh, yes!” you hear Luke cheer as his black and blue sneakers squeak on the linoleum floor. “I’m gonna guess all the beds right!”

Ryan follows along behind his little brother, shaking his head. He looks at you and mouths no he’s not. A chuckle rumbles your chest as you watch the boys walk further down the aisle, inspecting a shelf of body pillows.

“What kind of mattress do you prefer?” you ask Eddie. “Firm? Soft? Somewhere in the middle?”

“I—” he cuts himself off, brow wrinkling as he looks down at the scuffed white floor beneath his boots. “I don’t actually know.”

“No?” you ask, curiosity burning inside of you. He’ll explain if he wants to, but you’d never push.

He shakes his head. “I had a hand-me-down mattress when I lived with Wayne. Brought that same mattress when Jeff and I got a tiny ass apartment on the edge of Hawkins. After that I moved in with Brittany and we just used the one she already had. We got a new mattress when we moved into the house, but Brittany went out and picked it out herself. I didn’t see it until I went to sleep on it that night. It’s the same one there now.”

“So that mattress has a few good memories then,” you tease, giving him a gentle smirk. “Let’s test out what you like then.” You take a seat at the foot of the bed on the nearest mattress and hold out your hand to Eddie.

He parks the cart between two adjacent mattresses and climbs on the mattress next to you. The two of you situate yourselves as if you were going to go to bed, to sleep.

“This feels…” Eddie shifts his position, adjusting his shoulders to make himself more comfortable. “It’s a little hard.”

“I think so, too,” you agree. “Onto the next.”

After testing half a dozen beds, you and Eddie have deduced that he likes softer mattresses, but not too soft. With one goal achieved, now it’s time to find the most comfortable of the semi-soft mattresses.

“Okay, this might be the best one we’ve laid on,” Eddie says after four attempts. “I really like this.”

“This is nice,” you concur. “One more test.”

Eddie turns his head to look at you in question, but it clicks soon enough as you cuddle up to his side and rest your head on his chest. It’s the exact position the two of you lay in quite frequently, and you have to make sure that this bed is accepting and supportive of that.

“I mean, I can think of another test,” Eddie says as he wraps his arm around you. “But I don’t think they’d let us do that in the store.”

With a girlish giggle, you press a kiss to Eddie’s chest and push yourself into a seated position.

“What’s your verdict?” you ask.

Dark chocolate eyes gaze up at the ceiling as Eddie adjusts his position on the bed once more. Then, he slips his eyes closed and rolls onto his side, which is his most common sleeping position.

“Yeah,” he says, opening his eyes. “I’m gonna go with this one.”

“And this one is…thirteen thousand dollars!” Luke calls as he and Ryan run over. Luke face plants on the bed and Ryan plops down next to his brother on his bottom.

“He tried guessing the price of a lady’s dog,” Ryan says.

Luke lifts his head, blue eyes wide as he pulls his shoulders up towards his ears.

“She was carrying him in a little doggy bag! It looked like she was buying him!”

“This is the one you’re getting?” Ryan asks, ignoring his little brother completely. The older brother bounces slightly as he sits, testing out the springiness.

“Yep,” Eddie says as he pushes himself up from the bed. “Just have to get some sheets for it now. You two stay here and watch the cart, okay? We’re just gonna be right over there looking at the linens.”

“Okay,” Ryan says.

“Aye aye!” Luke gives his dad a salute before going to sit up near the pillows.

Eddie laces his fingers with yours, tugging you over to where bedsheets lay wrapped in their plastic coverings. “Gonna need your help for this one, baby.”

“Eds,” you protest, “this apartment is for you and the boys. I don’t wanna—”

Your boyfriend leans in and silences you with a kiss. “While I appreciate that…you and I are gonna be the ones getting well-acquainted with these sheets. I wanna make sure you’ll be comfy laying on them…or kneeling on them.” His eyes twinkle mischievously. “Don’t want those pretty knees getting scratched up while you’re riding me.”

You shove him away playfully. “Behave,” you warn, thumbing through the linen options.

“Yes, ma’am,” Eddie mumbles under his breath, though it’s hard to take that promise seriously when it’s followed by a pinch to your ass.

Eddie grabs a set of dove gray sheets and a matching comforter from the shelf and turns to head back towards the boys. Before the two of you reach the end of the aisle though, your boyfriend stops short and looks to you with eyes wide as saucers.

“Can I get Star Wars sheets?”

As much as Eddie tries to hold in his laughter, a snort breaks though. You shake your head in bemusement as you pass him by and head towards the arguably more mature Munsons.

“Okay, so.” Steve stands with his hands on his hips as he addresses his two oldest kids along with Eddie’s boys. “Any box marked with this word,” he points to where FRAGILE is written in black Sharpie, “is not for kids to carry.”

Luke furrows his brow. “Why not?”

Before Steve can answer, Theo speaks up. “Because it says the F-word,” he says matter-of-factly.

“No, it does not!” Steve sputters.

“There’s an F right there,” Luke points out. “See?”

Steve sighs. “Yes, that is an f-word, but it says ‘fragile,’ not—never mind.” He shakes his head. “Just don’t touch it.”

Across the room, Eddie grimaces as his uncle tries to lift a coffee table. “Old man,” Eddie calls out. “Put that down before you hurt yourself. My goal is to avoid the emergency room at all costs.”

Wayne shakes his head. “I’m not just gonna stand around while everyone else works,” he protests.

Eddie runs his fingers through his hair, wincing when he snags them on a knot.

“I didn’t wanna have to bring out the big guns…” He grins at Wayne’s puzzled expression before calling out to his sons. “Ryan! Luke! Grandpa wants to hear all about that cartoon you’re obsessed with.”

Luke bounds over with Ryan right behind him. “Okay, so there’s a cat and a dog, but they’re stuck together where their butts would be!” He cackles at this.

“And Cat is scared all the time, but Dog is crazy,” Ryan chimes in. “And he’s always getting Cat into trouble.”

Eddie throws his uncle a wink, a silent I warned you, and slides his arm around your waist.

“Thank God for shitty kids’ shows,” he murmurs.

You roll your eyes. “Pretty sure I’ve caught you watching that ‘shitty kids’ show’ on more than one occasion. Even without the boys there.”

Pressing a smacking kiss to your temple, Eddie whirls around to see Lucas, Max, and Dustin struggling with the sofa. “That’ll stay our little secret,” he says before darting off to help them.

A few hours later, once the moving van has been unloaded and furniture and boxes have been placed in their respective rooms, the whole group finds themselves in the living room. The youngest Munsons sit on the floor next to their Uncle Dustin. Wayne rests on the couch, sandwiched between Eddie and Steve. You, Lucas, and Max pull up some folding chairs. Each of you has a slice of pizza on a paper towel, since no one wanted to unpack the plates.

Pressing on his knees, Eddie stands up. “Before we dig in, I’d just like to offer a toast.” He raises his beer bottle, and everyone does the same—root beer for the boys, of course. “To the best moving crew this town has ever seen. May we never have to do this again.”

Everyone nods in agreement, bottles clinking before the room goes quiet. The only noise is the sound of pizza being devoured.

You look at Eddie, trading exhausted smiles. Today was long, but it was one huge step closer to your future together. No matter how strongly sleep beckoned you, you wouldn’t trade this for the world.

Once all that remains of the pizzas are the few crusts left behind in the box, everyone starts to head out. Eddie makes sure to thank each of them again when they say their goodbyes.

Wayne is the last one there besides you and the boys. The older man yanks his keys free from his back pocket and jingles them in his hand as he walks towards the front door.

“This is a nice place you got here, Ed.”

It doesn’t matter how old he is, hearing praise from Wayne still makes Eddie feel like a little boy making his father proud. He can’t help but smile as he shuffles over to his uncle.

“It is pretty nice, isn’t it?” Eddie looks around, taking in the dark green walls that he can’t wait to fill up with silly photos of the boys and pictures of your beautiful face to greet him every morning. A blank slate, his to do what he wants with.

“I’m proud of ya, son,” Wayne says, clapping Eddie on the shoulder. “You were dealt a rough hand but you’re making it through alright.”

“Doing my best,” Eddie admits with a shrug.

“That’s all anyone can,” Wayne says. “I’ll see you later, kid. Where my boys?”

As if waiting for their cue, both Luke and Ryan rush at Wayne, arms open and ready to receive their goodbye hugs.

“Bye, Grandpa!” Ryan says as he’s squeezed in the older man’s arms.

“Remember,” Luke says when it’s his turn to get hugged, “Catdog is on Nickelodeon, not Cartoon Network.”

“I’ll try to remember that,” Wayne says with a hearty chuckle. Next, those wise blue-gray eyes are aimed your way and before you even realize it, you’re going in for a hug.

Being hugged by Wayne is like cuddling up with a cherished childhood teddy bear after you’ve had a bad day. It feels safe, warm, and loving. It’s as obvious as Luke’s love for Hot Wheels where Eddie learned how to be a good father. Wayne might like to make people think he’s rough around the edges, but you’ve learned in a short time that he’s Mr. Softy when it comes to anything involving his family. But who can blame him when his family is Eddie, Luke, and Ryan?

“You take care, doll,” Wayne says, giving you a soft pat on the back before pulling away. “And let me know if any of these three get out of line.”

“Us?” Luke asks, voice an octave higher than usual as he gestures to himself. “Never!”

“Uh huh,” Wayne hums with a rumbling laugh. He ruffles the smallest boy’s curls before heading out the door.

You, Eddie, and the boys leave a few minutes later—not without arguing with Luke about using the bathroom. Ryan and Luke climb into the backseat, and after double-checking that they’re securely buckled in, you slide into the passenger seat.

Eddie shifts the gears from park to reverse, and you keep your hand atop his. The ride back to Brittany’s is fairly quiet, with no bickering from the brothers. Apparently, a long day of unpacking boxes and bothering their grandpa has worn them out.

It isn’t until you’re a few blocks away from the house that Luke speaks up.

“Dad, what’s for dinner tonight?”

Eddie keeps his eyes on the road as he answers. “You’re, uh, gonna have to ask Mom about that,” he says evenly.

“Can you ask her not to make fish sticks? I hate those.”

A lump forms in Eddie’s throat. He thought the boys both understood what the living situation was going to be. Sometimes it’s easy to forget Luke is only five with the larger than life personality he has or that Ryan is only seven when Eddie’s pretty positive the kid is smarter than he is. Eddie silently prays that he won’t have to explain the separation time and time again because he doesn’t think he has the strength to repeatedly let his sons down. Because that’s what he’s doing, right? Breaking their little hearts by telling them things are changing whether they like it or not.

It seems like aspects of it they like—like you being around more and being their father’s girlfriend. But it’s hard for them to grasp that in order for that to happen, they have to have Mom live in one place and Daddy in another. Eddie’s sure that the three of them not all waking up in the same house everyday is killing him more than it is them.

“Luke, buddy,” Eddie starts. “I’m not eating dinner with you tonight. We’ll eat dinner together when you stay at my place.”

Ryan leans forward. “Is Mom gonna eat with us there, too?”

You catch the sadness in Eddie’s face. The two of you know that it isn’t healthy for the boys to grow up in a home with parents who don’t want to be together, but that doesn’t mean the divorce is easy. You give Eddie’s hand a small squeeze of support.

“Guys, Mom and I don’t live together anymore. She lives at the house, and I live at the apartment.”

“Oh.” Realization hits Ryan. “So…you and Mom are gonna be separate forever?”

Forever. Eddie had promised Brittany forever that day at the altar, and now they’d reached a much different definition of that word.

It’s funny how the same word is so full of promise and excitement, blooming with life and warmth when he says it to you, but shriveled up and desiccated when presented by his sons in this context.

“Yeah. That’s what happens when people get divorced—they stop living together. But you will always have a home at Mom’s, and you’ll always have a home with me. They just won’t be the same home.”

There’s only silence as Luke and Ryan process the information. Neither you nor Eddie are used to them being so quiet; the million follow-up questions you’d anticipated never arise.

The floodgates burst when Eddie pulls into Brittany’s driveway, before the seatbelts can even be unfastened.

“I d-don’t wanna leave!” Luke cries, tugging his knees to his chest. “I don’t want Dad to live at the ‘partment!”

Your heart lurches. There’s nothing to say or do—he’s disappointed, and rightfully so. As much as you love Eddie, as glad as you are that he’s yours, you wish he and his sons didn’t have to deal with the pain of this divorce.

Eddie helps Luke out of the car, then Ryan. The older boy is fighting back tears of his own.

“I know this change is hard,” Eddie says to both kids, “but we’ll get used to it. I promise.”

Luke shakes his head, his curly mop of hair tangling. “No! I don’t wanna get used to it! I want you to live here again!”

“I know,” Eddie repeats, exhaling. “I wish I could make it easier.” He kisses each of his boys on the forehead and turns to you.

Ryan and Luke follow his gaze. They look even younger, smaller somehow, when they’re sad. All you want is to protect them from all of the bad in the world.

You open up your arms, enveloping them in a hug. “We’ll see you guys super soon, okay?”

It isn’t okay, and you’re sure Luke is about to tell you that. But then the front door swings open.

“Good, you boys are home. Wait. What’s wrong? What’s going on?” Brittany looks from the heartbroken boys in your arms over to Eddie in question. She doesn’t give anyone a chance to reply before her eyes snap back to the boys and she demands, “What’s wrong? Luke?”

The five-year-old turns out of your arms and buries his face in his father’s t-shirt. His small sniffles and sobs are heart wrenching, and you find yourself holding onto Ryan a little tighter out of reflex. Ryan rests his head against your body. The feeling of his shoulders heaving dials up your instinct to comfort, so you card your fingers through the boy’s honey brown curls.

Eddie is doing his best to comfort Luke as well. One ringed hand rubs up and down Luke’s small back, while the other cups the back of the boy's head as he cries. The pain lashing through your heart is nearly unbearable—you can’t even begin to imagine how bad it is for Eddie.

“He was a little confused about having two places to live now,” Eddie explains to Brittany. “He, uh, doesn’t want me living at the apartment.”

Brittany, to your surprise, stays quiet. She simply nods her head and crosses her arms over her chest.

“Do you want to go inside, Luke?” Ryan speaks up from your arms, standing up straight so he’s no longer leaning against you for support.

Still sniffling, Luke turns from Eddie’s torso and nods at his big brother, his left fist coming up to rub at his eye.

Ryan nods and steps out of the circle of your arms to offer his little brother his hand. Luke grips it tightly, like it’s a lifeline and he’s scared Ryan is going to be the next one to live somewhere else.

The two make their way into the house and the gazes of you three adults on the porch follow them until they’re out of sight.

Letting out a pained sigh, Eddie rubs his hands over his face. He hardly gets those two seconds of reprieve because Brittany immediately snarls at him.

“So, you just explained it all to him without me? Without even telling me?”

The look you register on Eddie’s face first is shock, but it disappears after half a second, used to this insanity and savagery from his ex.

“What did you want me to do?” Eddie sounds exhausted. Mentally, now, in addition to physically from moving furniture all day. “He was upset, did you want me to have him hold on so I could have you come over to the apartment? Get into the car with us?”

She probably wouldn’t have anyway, you say to yourself.

“Now I have to deal with him being upset,” Brittany complains.

You’re seeing red. The world is painted in crimsons and scarlets and it’s a good thing Eddie speaks up first, because something would’ve come out of your mouth that you would’ve ended up regretting later.

“He’s your son,” Eddie argues, seething anger present in his voice as well. “That’s part of your job. You should want to comfort him when he’s upset.”

With one last roll of her eyes and a loud scoff, Brittany steps back into the house and slams the front door behind her.

Eddie takes a few breaths before he lets out a pained chuckle and turns away from the house.

“I hate her so fucking much,” he says.

Your boyfriend takes a deep breath and turns to you. The pain in his eyes steals the breath from your lungs. That agony morphs into a look you can’t interpret at first. No, it’s still pain, just a different kind. He speaks up before you can ask about it.

“This shit isn’t easy,” he says. The tone of his voice makes it click for you. Part of him thinks you’re going to walk away from all of this. Now that the emotions are raw on a different level, he thinks you’re going to change your mind about this. About him.

But he’s crazier than Brittany is if he thinks you’re going to leave his side for even a moment.

“I know,” you answer him with a shrug of your shoulders. “But I’m not going anywhere, Eds. I’m here for you—all three of you.”

The plug is pulled on that pain and worry, and it all disappears down the drain to make room for the love and gratefulness that fills him up now. A small smile even curls one corner of his mouth up.

“Have I told you that I love you lately?” he asks.

“Not in the last…” you peer down at your watch before meeting his gaze once more, “hour or so. So, I think you’re due.”

Eddie steps forwards and presses a soft kiss to your forehead.

“I love you,” he whispers. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

His voice faltered slightly on the word “home,” but you don’t let him dwell on that. You slip your arm around his waist and start walking towards the car. “Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Eddie says as the two of you step into the driveway, “I got that bottle of champagne I bought for your birthday that I left at the Harrington’s. Figured it could be used to celebrate the new place. But, shit, I think I’m going to need something a whole lot stronger than champagne when we get back.”

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #older!eddie #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fan fiction #eddie munson fic #dad!eddie #eddie munson imagine #AYW #AYWS

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capslocked · 11 months

Text

KINKVEMBER DAY: 6

[prompt: blowjob]

male reader x hyeju

12k words

“I mean, don’t you think,” Hyeju says, wagging a finger at you, “that when you suffer through a bad date, the world ought to owe you something?”

"Like what?" you ask.

"Better taste in women - maybe more orgasms; I dunno, a blowjob?" She shrugs. "The general idea is just that someone gets to cum."

You nearly choke on the air in front of you. "Jesus, Hyeju, warn a guy."

“What? I’m trying to commiserate with you,” Hyeju laughs. “Wouldn’t that be funny? Being able to kiss someone who actually, you know, might love you back, and at the same time. Imagine not hooking-up just to forget a shitty day. Sounds wild, right?"

"Utterly deranged."

"So wild."

The first time you hook up with your roommate, it’s because of genetics - though not in the weird, uncontrollable way your body gets rigid and sensitive to any pretty girl who wears nothing but a towel moving between her bedroom and the bathroom, or how her eyes might flick fast from your chest up to yours - or given that the absolute shape of her is a blessing from one god or another (benevolent, clearly). That's not why Hyeju and you find yourselves only a few months later grinding on each other after the clock ticked past midnight, making out on New Year's Eve.

No, it has to do with the fact that Hyeju's nearly failing the nine AM section of molecular genetics because she's spent every lecture doodling stars and planets and planets shaped like asscheeks and planet-ass constellations while everyone else writes notes or doom scrolls twitter or whatever and she is somehow simultaneously the only student who never slept with her face on the lab desk or missed an assigned reading and the only one who absolutely needs a tutor.

It's just cosmic odds that you'd be that one: her roommate, who shouldn't be talking so loudly in the library about sex (in a sort of non-sexy, Mendelian kind of way) or be thinking the kind of things you've started thinking when Hyeju wears one of her more sleepshirt-esque long sleeves, her voice getting lower as you rattle off, "fruit flies and thale cress, definitely, it's just an error of fate or chromosome splitting..." before trailing off into a question.

"This is the worst thing that has ever happened to me," she finally tells you. You listen to her sigh into the binding of her textbook, facedown. "I'm really going to bomb this exam."

You tap her hand twice with your highlighter across the desk. "Then you're pretty damn lucky, if you think about it."

She turns to you, smiles a bit. "Okay, point. The worst thing will be having to retake this stupid fucking class."

"Why didn't you ask for help or go to office hours if you knew you were... failing?"

"Maybe because doing anything more than the bare minimum to get through a class I don't care about is my definition of, failing," she mumbles. "Why didn't anyone tell me a single lab is worth half my grade? Or that the TA is this fucking unreliable? How is this the one thing, really, beyond the basics, that can't be taught by wikipedia, a wikihow article and a youtube video?"

You scoot your seat closer to her. "You really need to relax."

"Fucking tell me about it."

You turn it over in your mind a few times, capping the top of your highlighter.

"Want me to get you off?"

And it’s not like you really mean it, when you say it, which is the strangest thing: you wouldn't actually suggest it, normally, wouldn't mention it in passing and then leave yourself open to the follow up and cross examination; yet there it is, after three, four hours of cramming notes on heterochronicity and the sloshing of gametes - you actually did propose it.

Hyeju jerks up, surprised.

"Are you serious?" She looks around, nearly snorting. "In the library?"

The face you’re giving her makes her scoff.

“You’re absolutely nuts.”

You have character flaws; the inability to admit wrongdoing chief among them. Hell, maybe it's from your mother - or maybe all your brains are just scrambled by the fact that Hyeju's sitting there with her pen against her pretty lips, hair glossier than usual as she scans your face and makes your entire body feel like a reactor core in meltdown.

Maybe you can blame what comes next on that.

"I'm always serious. I'm asking a serious question," you whisper, closing the textbook and resting your elbows on top. You look around quickly, like you're sneaking something in instead of this perfectly reasonable exchange, the perfectly platonic - except maybe not so much - way for friends to help each other.

"And I'm wondering what you're asking." Her cheeks are definitely pinker, you think, or the way it fills out her face, from the bottom up, is just that easy to imagine.

“I’m saying you haven’t gotten laid in months.” Here, you realize, these blocks of mental logic that definitely weren’t there when you blurted it out start to coalesce into something solid as you go on.

And you hadn't been wrong when you thought no one had given Hyeju a helping hand in a long, long time: you've heard through the walls or the floorboards at odd hours of the morning that she spends far too long fingering herself to a mind-numbing, tear-worthy frustration that leaves her knuckle-deep but never, ever sated or satisfied.

"No one's around, you'll feel better. You said it yourself."

Not a work of your imagination here - her ears are fucking burning.

"Wait a minute." She pushes her chair back, away from you and your gleaming offer. It clatters on its back legs, and a librarian waves her finger in warning. You wave back, sheepishly, until she stops and Hyeju stands and moves away from the table to talk, hands crossed over her front.

She turns and asks in a hushed-down-voice, "how did you know - did you hear something last night?"

"You couldn't keep it down even if you wanted to, honestly."

Hyeju turns further and throws a glare at the library doors, because obviously her noisiness and their collective noisemanship, or whatever the hell the word is, is clearly the root of the whole goddamn problem.

"Look - if not, no big deal - but I'm just saying you'll probably get over it and at least think less about sex. Or at least the wrong kind of sex."

You expect her to turn, sigh, and ask if you've lost your mind. Expect her to gather her jacket from the back of her chair, take her books and stomp out the room. Or even burst out laughing at the insanity, before slapping your arm lightly, in playful retaliation - anything other than the serious look she gives you in return, tilting her head, pressing her lips.

She turns up at the ceiling for a moment, contemplating something. And it's cute. It's so very, very cute, how her mouth pouts as she considers the possibility, right up until she says, "okay, fine."

The moderate twist of surprise taking hold in your brow must be visible.

"Oh, don't tell me that was all talk. Get me thinking about the right kind of sex or whatever."

You laugh, which has the librarian staring at both of you - until the librarian stops staring and probably sees Hyeju sliding back into her chair, the full, pent-up weight of her concentration pointed your way, knees inching apart - you, and Hyeju waiting, your knee bumping into her inner thigh, leaning closer as the textbook hits the floor.

"Don't laugh."

"Not laughing, seriously. Not laughing," you stammer. “I just think you’re just full of surprises.”

She spreads her knees further and sits taller, looking right at you.

"So then, surprise me," and then presses her cheek to the crook of your elbow.

You slide your chair right into the space next to hers, nuzzling up into the space under her ear. “Keep studying, Hyeju, you’ve got shit to do.” And then you slide your hand beneath the waist of her sweats, knead the swell of her thigh until you find the seam where her leg meets her body, press your palm down on the place just next to her center, your thumb in the middle. All this perfect pressure.

"Fuck," Hyeju says under a shudder. She's breathing heavier when your hot, open-mouthed kisses start landing at her neck, and she probably tries to read her textbook for about forty-five seconds longer. But there's the clench of her jaw right as your middle finger begins tracing circles beneath the fabric of her panties, and her gaze is blurring until she can't tell the difference between an allele or your fucking name.

"Shh-shh," you quiet her, finger tapping harder, playing with the slick wetness beneath all those layers of thick cotton and pressing two fingers there until her knees part like they’re not interested in resisting at all. Your lips press a kiss to the shell of her ear and she tenses all at once, hand shooting up to cover her mouth.

She simply leans back, closes her eyes, and lets you take care of her.

“Okay, you’re right,” she says, shaky and uneven, “that really did take some of the edge off. Did we ever review - poly- uh, pol-polymers here?"

The sweatshirt sleeve falling off your shoulder is a hindrance to any actual reading; her shifting against the chair isn't helping either, but you manage to push down the thoughts of stripping her down completely and giving her your tongue as yet another distraction.

"What did the syllabus say? I don't know if we need to read too far on 'polymers'," you say, having going through an entire afternoon without considering this once, but as you curl your fingers and take an honest crack at cramming the remaining chapters into her head, the knowledge that no one else is getting her this wet - except for whoever she's got in her mind's eye at three AM - is enough to get you feeling a little dizzy.

It’s probably supposed to be weird, given that you’ve never gotten any of your other friends off spontaneously in the library, or there's the fact that you can't really avoid each other afterwards, how she shows up in a silk negligee when you're pouring coffee before sunrise to prep for another day and you have the opportunity to notice - yes, she has amazing taste in underwear, yes, you might not have really appreciated her chest and figure enough before - yes, fuck it. She catches you noticing that first time, after coming downstairs with nothing but one of her cropped t-shirts and her board shorts, and she smirks when she realizes you're still thinking about it that afternoon, when her foot grazes yours while you're both washing dishes, and she dries the plate in her hand with a slow swipe.

And it is weird, actually, to describe what’s going on between you in words.

A few words, anyway, like a one-word label to describe what it was: friends or roommates-with-benefits, or - fuck buddies - god, it's even worse. Fuck buddies? Fuck friends? Something equally terrible and stupid that still makes sense, like something out of a shitty rom-com: it doesn't capture any of the rest of the myriad ways in which things can feel less or less friendly between two people.

So, friends was never, ever going to cut it. Roommates - although technically correct - is just this side of too clinical. And let's be clear: strangers don't wake up every morning together, walk to the same class, sit close together in the middle seats, secretly flick a strangers' skirt up in an empty lecture hall and get on their knees and work your mouth onto her pussy and watch the legs of the desks shake when her feet arch into the floor.

"The notes you've got are better than mine," is how Hyeju tries to put things, the next day and every time after that, standing in the doorframe, or at the foot of your bed and looking every bit the disheveled and hopeless mess you imagine she might spread out over the sheets of her own.

It gets complicated, which isn't really a surprise.

"You think your roommate is going to be home tonight?" is the question that comes up multiple times - from a revolving door of pretty names and faces. Hyeju has at least one opinion, if not more, on each of them.

"Tell Jinsoul I say hi," she says once, watching you get ready for a date, and you nearly bang your knee on the edge of the bathroom vanity.

It's one of the more harmless comments she's offered.

Another, backhanded: "if you’re just looking for a blowjob everyday between lunch and our physics lab, let Hyunjin or Heejin or whatever-her-name-is know she's easily my favorite," Hyeju says on your way out one morning, still under her covers.

Or,

Hyeju's texted a simple "uh, Chuu? really??" when you mention, once, how much fun you've been having - and what kind, as you make a round of self-conscious and rambling phone calls the next day that land you with only one prospect for the night - but your roommate's also no longer being your roommate by the end of it, bouncing against your thighs in the bathtub and moaning something about please more and fuck or fucking make me cum; the details escape you a bit.

That's what friends are for, probably.

Still, in the same, bare-bones explanation, friends also aren't for falling asleep on you - or letting you hold her - or fucking you awake in the middle of the night. Friends aren't for pushing down your jeans when the early-morning dew settles on the back patio, or jerking you off in the seat beside yours with a sweatshirt over your lap when a group project is due later and you all should probably work on that and instead get yourselves off and leave the mess of what you're doing half-finished. Friends aren't, probably, for offering to watch you rub your palm up and down your cock the night before next semester's exams when you can barely sit in a single chair and you can't think about molecular biology or neurochemical transcriptions when your whole body aches to do the transcribing. (If you can catch that drift.)

The lists of who are and are not good enough for you goes on and on - the latter longer than the former.

So, there's Choerry, who according to Hyeju is 'straight up, a total slut'. Yeojin, who gets mistaken for your little sister enough times that Hyeju refuses to - in good faith - let you keep sleeping with her. Both Heejin and Gowon are apparently too pretty for you. "Kim-lip?" she asks, in the middle of peeling garlic, "is that one name or two?" And laughs into a bottle of beer, loud, while you're telling her to quit being nosey and watch her fingers with the damn knife.

"You have a problem."

"Why, because I asked a few simple questions? I think anyone would be a little curious with the -" she pauses to wave her fingers - "I'd be remiss to not be interested in the very drama that unfolds literally across the hall."

She waggles her eyebrows.

You look up at the ceiling. God save you, you think. "Hyeju."

("Seriously," Hyeju chimes in one evening, arms around you, and a mouthful of the dinner you'd cooked.

"You need better taste in girls. Don't waste time on anyone too dumb, or who drinks the milk straight from the carton, or doesn't wash her socks with the same load of laundry. Oh, and - no one who chews loudly. No one who can't tell you're going to cum. The worst is someone who doesn't know what you like, trust me on that. And remember the last rule: don't do anything with someone who eats at a really slow pace, it's incredibly depressing."

You rest your chin on her shoulder from the spot behind her. "Duly noted, oh Master of all Knowledge."

She sighs into your arm, but in the next moment, her voice gets a lot softer, her hips fidgeting slightly against you. "I just mean you're the kind of person people would want to sleep with again," she says, before turning to say your name and kiss you again and again as your bodies curl inward.

"I wonder what that means, Hyeju," you say.

"Fuck," Hyeju groans as you slide further into her, pushing her back into the sofa - hands on her shoulders, legs bent on her either side, "don't tease me like this.")

The first snowfall of the year is mild, a tiny dusting, nothing that sticks on the pavement in the alley or on the sidewalks - or the lintels - or in Hyeju's hair, but by evening, when the snow picks up and everything goes quiet, Hyeju has changed into flannels and wool socks in anticipation, curled up like a cat at one edge of the window ledge as the world begins to go white. It's enough that you even pull on a thicker sweatshirt, open up a book, and join her.

She turns toward you, quiet.

You've reached a point in the semester where this, the silence, doesn't unsettle you anymore. It's the space you fill up with time in-between, where you can see the contours of her body against the orange lamplight of the space heater, or watch her kick off the top half of the duvet at night as you fight over space in her bed and wonder about the bare skin peeking out from her shorts.

"Feeling bored?" She slides her foot a little closer to yours, almost imperceptibly. "Am I keeping you entertained enough?"

Her lips pull up at the corner. You chuckle.

"Oh, no."

She scoffs and puts her hands on her knees, pushes herself closer to the window sill and bumps her elbow into your shoulder. The bare skin of her neck and shoulders and face is getting a little redder as she cranes it forward. "Okay, if not, do you need someone to entertain you, maybe."

Your mouth twists, fighting a smile.

Hyeju is so close to you, you could kiss her really, really easily and not care how she'd feel about that. It's not a habit, not as often as it used to be, but every once and a while - she starts this game. Every once in a while, Hyeju just starts smiling like that, and leans into you like she's daring you to play along, hard round of chicken until it's clear what the two of you are doing with each other; the minutes pass by, one, then two, and then - maybe she pushes first, her leg on yours, or a kiss to your jaw or a palm on your back as she walks behind you - and then you'd turn and kiss her full on the mouth and pull at her clothes like nothing's holding you back.

She cocks a smile, and says, "why don't you go and call what's her name."

"Because."

You glance out at the cold, gray light outside. If you had a better understanding of any of the workings inside you, you could reach forward and tell her everything that's stopped you.

You're supposed to meet the girl-of-the-month at a New Year's party. Hyeju looks disgusted within the first ten seconds of the whole story.

"Heejin dumped you once, like, two months ago? For no reason."

"It wasn't a break-up. We talked about what we did wrong and we're doing better," you say, lifting one finger.

She glares, then, tilts her lips into this unamused purse that you can't take seriously at all when she starts walking back and forth across your living room, hands moving emphatically to the sides as she speaks, like she's in the process of unveiling a brilliant argument and is using both palms to guide your eyes toward the unquestionable logic. "God, you're the worst. You're just her easy fuck and you'll still answer her late night calls, really."

She leaves the rest unsaid - that she's just not that into you.

"I don't tell you which boys or girls you can call up," you try, putting on a boot. "If you'd like, I can. Name off the list, and make sure that the right name leaves my mouth this time."

Hyeju doesn't blush when you glance up, which is the surprising thing. No - her cheeks have grown a little more sullen, and she stares down at her socks in contemplation. You're in the middle of fastening up the lace and getting to your feet, waiting, wondering if Hyeju's going to continue this conversation, when Hyeju takes one small step forward.

And her hand goes out to touch your chin, thumb at your lip, fingers holding it in place - like you'll turn if she lets it go - the sharp shock of the sensation like a short circuit, before her knee comes between yours, and your body tingles, at the root and stem. "Hey," she says, eyes meeting yours. The edge of her nail flicking gently as she drags the curve of her thumb downward.

"Hyeju, please - I need to get going."

When you start walking toward your car, she calls out from the window. Something about how you better have the time of your life, fun for the two of you - it’s only fair.

(You feel, somewhere, a certain strange loss.)

"What, are you going to stay up and wait until I come back? Or am I interrupting your session for the night."

You can barely make it out, the smallest look passing over her face. "Maybe," she says, and then: "god, it's fucking cold."

New year's parties have this sort of quality of being simultaneously the most thrilling, exciting prospect on earth and the absolute worst fucking event in the history of the planet - depending on the venue, how egregious the racket is for a gin and tonic, the guests - oh, and the company.

Jinsoul and Choerry are both in attendance; in separate corners and in equal states of undress and intoxication, which seems fine by every present party, who are for the most part busy ogling one or the other in the full spirit of the New Year - as you would too, if the stars are aligned and Heejin hasn't already gone upstairs with half the guestlist, her arm wound with someone else's, as per her recent habit; if you haven't been tossed aside for any of the usual, less forgettable prospects and for something bigger, better and certainly much more enjoyable.

Which, if there were any way to track these things down with math, you'd already be reaching for your pen and notebook, as Hyeju would describe this sensation in a phrase she picked up from some podcast. Inevitable means necessary, or something.

"Good party," says Heejin, throwing back another drink.

"Yep. You said that," and you finish yours in one long draw, hissing through your teeth.

Heejin is a goddamn delight, of course, in all the simplest of ways. When she looks up at you - mouth pink, hair framing her face - she is so clearly and completely aware of what she is, and exactly what the world has in store for her, what it has set aside.

"Do you want to know what happened at the other New Year’s party we went to last year?"

"I - yeah. Hit me. Tell me all about (another date you were on) Heejin, that’s exactly what I’d love, let’s hear it."

She throws her head back and laughs, before starting into an overlong recount of her latest, greatest conquest, you on the outside. This is the thing - this is how a pretty face, with just a hint of a flirt, will make you feel for a beautiful, attractive, vivacious - absolutely shameless, raving sex-crazed lunatic of sorts who, apparently, loves to run around town and make a bunch of your closest friends fall in love and heartbroke-er, with every passing notion of her beauty, her charm - just the tilt of her chin, and some poor fucker is lost, absolutely lost.

Even she knows it's a bad habit of hers.

But who doesn't have a weakness? You've got plenty of your own - plenty, Heejin can admit - everyone does, in a way, and so Heejin, the other sloppy drunks milling about the party, and Choerry and Jinsoul all agree - someone like her just happens to have the best kind of weakness - so, so many of them, in fact:

"Can you believe how easily a few words get Jinsoul riled up? Or how it only takes a couple drinks for Choerry to pull up the hem of her skirt, not knowing the effect that'll have?"

And as for the last, and arguably worst kind -

"Hyeju, huh? What a great start to the New Year," is her final word. Heejin reaches across and downs your drink. Her expression turns just shy of grave, a pensive look. "Not your smartest idea, the living-together situation. Who in their right mind would put themselves in such a mess?"

"Thanks for the great advice." You wave her off, irritated.

There's another laugh before Heejin leans her face onto the table.

"Though maybe she's onto something, now that I think of it. Who needs anyone for the New Year?" and it's almost convincing the way her mouth, lined up with the rim of the glass, smirks when she drinks. "Mm. All a matter of taste."

The snow is halfway up your calves when you realize you need to find a cab at 11:30 PM on New Year's Eve. (Which, categorically, is the worst time to need to find a cab on New Year’s Eve.)

Or just:

11:36 PM and the nearest bus stop is too far away.

11:41 and the temperature feels like its dropped by fifteen degrees, like you should start wondering what hypothermia symptoms look like and what signs to look out for in yourself, your future wife and your children. You try not to think about why, but you get your phone out and immediately call Hyeju, so you're not sure what you think you're denying.

"No party?" she asks. Her voice is distant and sleep-ridden, but Hyeju's quick to pick up, like always.

"It sucked, I'm trying to find a way home early. Happy New Year."

"Happy New Year." There's a long pause, filled in by the squeak of snow beneath your boots. "Get a kiss?"

"Uh, not yet. In the market, I guess."

Hyeju's low hum isn't reassuring, either. "Well, you're kind of missing your window. Bad time to start looking."

"Says you, and here you are - still up for someone to spend the night with. Look at you," you respond, all this snark in your voice that she clearly hears. There's a long sigh.

"Actually," and Hyeju, much to the confusion of you and possibly the whole world, doesn't respond, and for a few seconds, the line goes completely silent, leaving you hanging.

She breathes once and comes out of her sleep with a yawn.

"I actually," she begins. There's a lot less preamble this time - this tone - and when she speaks again it comes through not nearly as sleepy, "was sorta wondering. Are you on your way home?"

"If I don't freeze to death, yeah."

"Yeah - no, yeah," and that's it. That's the sum total of what makes any difference between where you were a moment ago, and where you are right now, head spinning, fingers buzzing. Hyeju waits and there's the wind on the line, snow settling on your hat and in the corners of your face.

"I - sorry. I probably woke you up. Are you expecting someone else," you say, very small. Your foot drags behind the other. The cars whizz by you faster, passing.

"Hm. You're the only one, I guess," and after that - just static and the muffled sounds of her footsteps on creaky floorboards - or the tick of her ceiling fan? You can't make heads or tails of the rest of the background noise. All those words she said.

You bite your tongue to stop whatever curse words start pouring out from the jumble and cross streets, or the pedestrian underpass; snow gets stuck in your lashes and burns, but your chest is like a molten furnace. You consider telling her right there on the line, everything you're feeling - so hot, it feels like fire, Hyeju, I'm not used to getting heated and desperate and impatient - that even if you're not here now - just imagining your face - the sound of your breathing, it feels like I'm on the cusp.

"Yeah. Sure - good - okay, Hyeju."

"I guess, see you soon?"

"In a bit."

(It takes 33 minutes, trudging through cold and wet. It's all very dramatic, you think, and there's no one there to even watch you suffer for it, or - though you try not to think about that particular line - really, no one at all.)

You hear the way your key grinds in the lock - it's been like this, jammed since summer, when you pushed the front door in late at night a little too hard and something came undone and made a sound like a small stone tumbling down the world's deepest well. The hinge squeaks, and there's ice on the stoop, on the doormat, on every nook and corner you can see, all the way up your neck.

And your face, too. You shake off your hat, undo the buttons on your jacket, and pull off your boots before hanging them and all the layers to dry.

You can make out the outline of her profile at the edge of the door frame, right in the kitchen - barefoot, hip pressed against the island, pajamas - the dim lights illuminating the shadow of her head, hair over her face -

- but you don't pause. The next layer. There's nothing left to say. You're too cold for excuses, too smart to use the same ones you'd been taught, like: this is a normal, acceptable circumstance; everything, anything, will be perfectly normal if the two of us act as though that's the case; pretend we're both acting within the norms of reason, within our senses and logical thinking and I won't make myself go out in the cold a second more - won't stand for more than five minutes with your eyes looking like they're waiting.

So you move instead toward the kitchen, where the heating is better and she's already pouring coffee. There's a heat radiating out of the oven, and it smells sweet in there, like cinnamon and warm butter, and you wish you weren't still shaking, blood barely thawed, but there it is - her face, watching you - eyes gleaming as you wrap your hands around a mug, steam rising up - a shiver running up your arms; her knees skirting yours when she takes one step back and there's the cabinet door shut, then open again, and then a palm on your back.

Hyeju presses a cup of the fresh coffee, now warm enough to drink, to your chest, and says, softly. "What the fuck happened out there?"

She starts reaching out to wipe the frost and slush from your face. You let her hand hold you still, eyes wide.

"Oh you know," and her palm stays, even though it's obviously - suddenly - gotten warmer, and wetter too, and the longer she stands there and lets her fingers warm the pale bones of your cheeks, her wrist, the base of your forehead and ears, the more expectant the look on her face grows. "The usual."

Her eyes go as narrow as they ever can. For just a moment. "You're gonna die a slow, pathetic death someday, just for the record."

"Don't forget how this starts," you try, and feel your neck go warm, throat and breath tight. And not even when her shoulders shift, her mouth going smug - just looking at you.

“I mean, don’t you think,” Hyeju says, wagging a finger at you, “that when you suffer through a bad date, the world ought to owe you something?”

"Like what?" you ask.

"Better taste in women - maybe more orgasms; I dunno, a blowjob?" She shrugs. "The general idea is just that someone gets to cum."

You nearly choke on the air in front of you. "Jesus, Hyeju, warn a guy."

“What? I’m trying to commiserate with you,” Hyeju laughs. “Wouldn’t that be funny? Being able to kiss someone you actually, you know, might love you back, and at the same time. Imagine not hooking-up just to forget a shitty day. Sounds wild, right?"

"Utterly deranged."

"So wild."

When Hyeju sighs and gives a long, nonchalant hum, leaning her body closer, pressing up until her waist hits the cabinet top and you're pressed together chest-to-chest, she looks at you and her hips settle, the heel of her foot reaching around your calf.

There's that tingle. Again and again. You're not even trying to not think about what it might mean.

But then, you start, silently and unconsciously, trying to answer the question: why don't you, maybe. Why don't you, actually - Hyeju kisses you, pulls on the loop of your jeans and lets your lips brush the corners of hers and pulls away, suddenly, mumbling and head-turning. And just as abruptly, your nose buries in the space between her neck and her shoulder, where it's all warm. And when she puts her palms on your hips and squeezes and twists her knuckles into the fabric there, it seems she wants your hands up her shirt and under the small of her back.

And her hands - they're fidgety tonight, fingers curled up to keep their nails and the chill away, moving lower - one on your ass, while the other comes forward and begins rubbing circles, a handful of times - enough so you're letting a deep, low breath escape into the space just above her collar, your knee working its way between hers.

"That," Hyeju breathes, lips at your ear, hand reaching down to trace the hard curve of your cock pressing in the spot right between you, and there's that small rush again, familiar now, like you've caught a rhythm and she wants to feel it in its fullness: "is how you can make it up to me. For making me stay up. Worrying about you, god knows why. Waiting."

You're still half-frozen in a way, slowly thawing. "Hyeju, I've been trudging through the consequences of my actions this entire night. What am I about to suffer through now?"

"It's no consequence, honestly."

You squint.

"Just an idea, but," she breathes again; your bodies getting closer, and looking up at you, she grins and reaches down to touch the very root of you, her fingers drumming. You make a sound, and at that she says, her voice coming out thick, low:

"Want me to get you off?"

She squeezes again for good measure, just to be clear. Just a slight curl of fingers that's enough to send a flash of heat and the transient thought: why, why, why is she always wearing those fucking shorts, even in the winter?

Your blood thrums through the pulse at the end of your cock. You shake.

"Alright," is the response you let out.

And at that, Hyeju takes your wrist and leads you upstairs.

"There's that look. Don't worry. We'll find a way," is all she says as your feet walk forward, up step-by-step and higher and further up to her room. "After all, isn't that what we've always done?"

"It's usually whatever will make me stop talking."

Hyeju puts her chin on your shoulder. Her eyes follow the lines and shapes in the patterns of wallpaper as you turn onto her side of the apartment, and even through the wall and behind the doorway, her arm still around you, she pulls at your chin until your faces turn and you both can share each other's heat.

"Who, you and your awful habit of talking out-loud in your head while you work through equations?" and she brings her lips to yours, close and warm.

"Hey. Fuck you," and your voice breaks into an odd, low laughter when she kisses you harder.

"Yeah, I know," she whispers as her hand dives past the band of your boxers, palm sliding easily until she's gripping you fully and letting her fingers rub. She holds you there, in her room, her arm looped through yours, another arm resting at your belly.

And she stops there. She stays like that: holding your gaze.

"Look, Hyeju," you say, unable to not, though this can hardly count for anything; this, what you're about to admit, is nothing new. You swallow. "The thing is - you shouldn't."

"Don't want me to touch you?" she says, finger to your lips.

"Well, that's different. Maybe. Is there - maybe it's not the best thing to ask you right now."

Hyeju considers for a brief moment and tuts under her breath. "Can you at least do me the decency of waiting until I'm done wringing you dry before you say shit like that."

And she moves then, toward the bed.

So:

No. Yes. Maybe. Who knows, you tell yourself. Maybe, but only because you'll do anything if it makes you feel less sick, like a creature standing over its own skeleton - an abandoned shell; a relic, something to be feared and disgusted, as you let her go between your thighs, kneel beside the bed.

"I mean - since when - have you felt," is just as far as you're allowed to go before Hyeju presses her nose into you and pulls you out of the thin, cold fabric - palm, thumb, all those slender fingers swiping over your head - and now there's just the smell of her room and the shock, the buzz that runs down your spine and settles somewhere, somewhere inside the small and desperate movement of your hips and the tension building just below.

And god, fuck, Hyeju’s lips.

These soft, wet, pouty fucking things that could suck you straight off if you were feeling any less stupid or inexperienced or sentimental - if she wasn't solely intent on teasing it out of you first; a slow drag of the tongue up the underside; the tip of it poking, tracing the rim, like she's figured you out, just where to lead you. She's ready to smoke you out - always - until you're not taking in a breath every ten seconds but starting to close your eyes to the overwhelming, needling pleasure, too sharp, the way she knows you like best.

"Now you're finally - mm - starting to sound hot," and that smirk comes back to the corner of her mouth, teasing the sensitive belly of your cock and tracing her tongue everywhere. "With the voice and -"

You're losing track, her thumb and fingers circling the whole length of you - just, one after the other - mouth a hair-breadth away, her breath hovering like a promise.

"- that face."

"Don't, fucking tease me-"

The sound of your cock going in is like nothing else.

Wet and filthy in all the right ways.

Just the suction in her throat has your eyes nearly roll back into your head - Hyeju's gaze calmly watching the terrible sort of helplessness that washes over you like this: her lips wrapped around, bobbing - her hair falling into the wet mess of her mouth and sticking there. Hyeju likes being a little sloppy, likes feeling that spark run up the length of her tongue when she slides. It's the wet and the heat that gives everything away.

"I don't have much of a choice -" her jaw and chin is smudged when she pulls back off of your cock, mouth glossy and glistening, "and honestly, wouldn't it be a better use of our time, or my talents if I actually do that thing?"

“Which is?”

She looks up for a bit and sighs, the flush blooming pink to the tip of her ears and into the rounds of her cheeks and all across her neck. "Since, as far as I can see, what you really like - is, oh I'm just spit-balling here," and she stops just to bite her tongue and look into your eyes, "it's letting the girls take care of you? Isn't that right?"

You want to tell her, no, not always, that it's not as though you enjoy giving control completely - that that would be completely and unarguably, the opposite of true -

That most of the time you love it when the person you're with is a little bossy, a little crazy for you. You know some guys really get off on a strong woman and maybe, maybe if a girl's pretty and dressed up, and - sure - a little wet, but that's hardly -

“You know I’m right,” she says, a flicker of mischief skittering across her features. “These walls are paper thin.”

You want to tell her, perhaps remind her, that she likes someone in charge just as much as you do - to be taken care of, told what to do - to have a hand curled up around her throat and the other at her tits while a guy fucks her the right way and takes the reigns when she needs. So who are you, when it comes to knowing her better? And who, really, are you fooling?

But before you can get any words in: Hyeju dips, lips parting where the head of your cock throbs, and then disappears; and the hot wet warmth, enveloping all around your shaft and back; the curve of her throat contracting.

You moan - a lot, and louder this time - into the whole feeling. The way her fingers work the distance from the base, twisting and twisting and twisting into the pout of her lips; or how the sound is like nothing - a whimpering, messy sound - almost a whine and definitely not a slurp as your cock sinks further and further, until it's all one big, heavy throb.

And it's like Hyeju can read your thoughts, the visual you have of her lips screwed tight around your shaft - cum leaking from the corners, and her eyes scrunched up tight, as she looks up to watch your face unravel - this perfect image of her taking you, all of you, swallowing each drop as your hips start rutting up into her and - and - and.

Or else she gets impatient, because then Hyeju gives one long pull off the tip of your cock - saliva mixed in the precum there, and that shiny string of fluid hanging, caught in the middle between your bodies - a disgusting and irresistible sight. Her jaw slack, lips swollen and full, and her mouth gone wide open, wanting.

"Fuck - that's good. Don't stop," you start to whimper, desperate, at the sight, the smell. Her hot breath coming quick over the red wanting wetness left behind - then touched by the cold air - fuck -

She slaps your cock to the corner of her lips as she speaks.

"Can you believe what's going on down here?"

"God, can you -"

"And to think most guys wanna jump straight in. That or fuck a load out between my tits."

"Hyeju, shit, come on -"

She kisses the soft tip, right where it’s most sensitive, rolls it along her lip. Then, back down the length of your shaft where she's generous with her mouth inch after inch - lapping, licking, laving - and Hyeju begins working her way down and downward, nestling in at the edge of the bed and between your thighs.

Your eyes blow up the first time she dips low enough to put your balls in her mouth.

“Mmhm,” she hums.

It’s killing you and she knows it; it’s killing you and she can feel the pre-cum leaking from your slit - the thumb she has moored there, keeping everything right where she wants it, running circles up the length with such little intention - she could bring you to the end just like this.

"Am I supposed to believe it?” she asks out from beneath the shadow of your cock, looking up at you with her eyes all wide and brilliant - pupils dark as sin. “That not a single one of those girls ever did you proper?"

You curse under your breath. Hyeju seems amused, at least, like she can't help but love doing that to you, which is almost worse and honestly the sexiest thing a girl can be. You groan - wanton, raw and desperate and feeling exactly what she wants you to feel when her nails drag along the dip of your hip bones.

"Did they not leave you fucked-up the right way?"

Her wrist flicks out these twists and turns, making your spine bend to her control. Like even when you're sure to be bundling her hair in your fingers and fucking the whole length of your cock down her throat, all of this is the worst kind of power-trip for her - not the other way around.

Her tongue runs through the tangle of your balls, slowly, lasciviously, as though the plan is to memorize and map every detail.

And the worst part is, how much it's making you desperate for the warmth of her mouth - where she'll run her tongue up and down and over and around and inside - before sucking you off nice and slow.

"Or maybe," she laughs; another flick to the top and then suddenly her hand goes faster and the fist pumping the rest of you tightens. "They left you so needy you're resorting to having the bestie suck you off so that you won't be desperate the next time you date. Oh my god-"

Hyeju breaks into this fit of laughter, and you're nearly cross-eyed at the feeling of your entire existence - not just your cock - so wholly held within her mercy, and her pity, and you're breathing so shallow now you'd think this is the real reason people have died and will die - this exact moment where you're choking and stuttering at the edges, so very close to cumming and going absolutely bonkers with how good Hyeju is with her hands, her tongue, her mouth - everything - how much she's wrecking you, and your jaw drops, wide open, her name dripping like molasses off your lower lip.

"Are you going to cum?" she asks, curiously. All as if she can't see you nodding, collapsing under pressure, and then and there: "should we make it official?"

Her nose tickles the seam of your balls. And your toes begin to curl and uncurl - all this anticipatory, coiling pleasure burning from her throat, shooting from the pit of your stomach; the tightening spiral, twinging and stretching every nerve - as her lips enclose around the end of your cock, softly.

And oh, just excruciatingly slowly.

You watch the irresistible shape of her mouth travel down until her throat feels so incredibly, beautifully, and unbelievably tight, and then, just like that - Hyeju starts fucking herself onto you; pushing forward and down the full, rigid length of you, hard and fast - each time hitting deeper inside her - all that sticky, messy, wet squelching.

"Unh-unh, yeah. Unh. Mm-!" you say, or moan, or some animal version of that, maybe, it’s incoherent.

But regardless:

It's messy and your hands scramble for purchase in the sheets of her bed when you feel that snap, the tightening of a trigger; when your balls roll up and it builds, and builds, and it comes faster - harder and -

"Hyeju," you pant, and it sounds so, so filthy. "I'm gonna cum, if you - gonna cum-"

Hyeju pulls you free from her lips, quite possibly at the most final of final moments, to rub the base up and down, just right, between her fingers. Your cock is resting right on her cheek when it all happens. When she squeezes her fingers around your balls just enough to hear you wheeze and make a sound no sane man should have the right to. And fuck, you're cumming all over her face - or just one side of it - which is already just -

Okay, fuck.

She makes a startled sound and her fist closes tightly around your shaft when you pump another fresh load of white up onto her eyebrow.

"I'm, ah-shit," your mouth moves faster than the blood in your veins - and now the shame - oh god, the humiliation, it's pulsing right behind you. "Hyeju," you apologize.

Only, Hyeju has no interest in any of it. She doesn't seem offended or disappointed in proportion to how you're ruining her pretty face: "no, just do it, cum wherever you fucking like."

Which isn't what you're expecting at all, because Hyeju makes no effort to close her lips, let alone avoid any of it; nor is she making a fuss about the sticky mess in her hair, her mouth, nor as another stream of cum throbs from your cock, all tangled up in the long dark eyelashes that sweep down across her cheek.

It’s fucking filthy: you're cumming all over her and she's just kneeling there, telling you, "good boy."

See, she pushes through it, languidly - all those filthy sounds, and those watery little tears gathering at the edge of her eye and all of that, mixing up together until you're rolling your head back with your orgasm, shuddering, feeling weak - drained dry -

Except,

Hyeju's pushing a finger to your chest, kneeling up tall from the side of the bed. She turns her body toward the center of the bed and wipes a bit of the cum on her knuckles into the sheets. Here you feel like you've done something terrible or at least regrettable, like that last round at the bar when you have a test the next morning; a dick move, all of the sort that requires apology.

"You gotta give me a minute, if you're thinking about hopping on."

"Hmm. Sounds like a lot to ask."

"Wait," you grab her arm. Hyeju grins and there's nothing stopping the shake of your knees now, that weakness between your thighs: "let me get you a drink."

"Or."

"Or?"

Her tongue peeks out, running along her upper lip. Her eyes drop again, hands dipping below, beneath the hem of her shorts and oh. She slips a hand past her bra. The whole outline of it. And you -

"Mm, I could show you what that actually means." She lowers her chest, her breasts, and a lot of skin to the mattress while keeping your cock firmly in her hands. "That look tells me you wanna stick around a bit. Stay up past New Year’s, you know?"

You're almost unable to parse her words, there is so much to look at: the jutting curve of her chest, cleavage pressing into the mattress as her body settles between your knees. A soft chuckle; a sigh: "you are seriously the best lay, no-one else can get hard the minute after they just fucking exploded all over me-"

"Fuck, watch it," you hiss, because there's oversensitivity - and then there's Hyeju's mouth on the line of your cock, polishing you clean.

And it’s not that she isn’t trying to prove a point. Or that she's not trying to tease - that's an inherent quality of her character: a naturally dominant position with a high appetite for your lust. That much, Hyeju gets from you, whether you've got your head down between her thighs or the other way, too, so that her neck is arched around and her ass pushed up high in the air, legs open, and if she had any idea you would spend the next twenty minutes or more just going down on her, licking into her creaming cunt while two fingers work over her aching clit, then really, Hyeju would only encourage it - maybe get on top, force you to gag - and so you don't know where it comes from - how and why you want nothing more than to drive your fingers inside her and work her until she's a wet, squelching mess, not when this was always Hyeju's role of being the aggressor; and yes, sure, even the aggressed.

Surely not because you came so hard, still somewhat shivering with the remnants of a rather abrupt, painful, sudden and all-consuming orgasm.

"We're not doing anything else," she says, lips pulled up into a smirk right at the crown of your cockhead. But before you can respond she pushes a hot open kiss, and goes lower. She presses the flat of her tongue to the seam, just below the head. Licks a line right up to the tip and finishes with a tender flick that sends you fisting the bedspread in your fingers and leaning back as your mind begins to disintegrate -

"I'm not going to ride you yet, or going to get my hips in your hands so you can fuck my pussy real hard until I cry and pass out. Nothing of that sort is gonna happen." She licks one long drag of her tongue. Then, the other way. "I want to make this very clear: this isn't some huge favor - and if you want it - want it so bad, you can stay there and I'm going to do everything for you. We will get there - together," and with her voice shaking as she brings the wet, glistening skin of your cock just inside her mouth, she looks up. "We'll get each other off, just like this," and it's the deep, dark, throated moan that makes your thighs and all the nerves in between stiffen and buck when she swallows you again.

Hyeju's hands tug, pull her whole body closer still as it slowly bends, curves - her ass raised, her stomach lying on the bed. Her mouth takes you another few inches, until the tip of her nose is barely visible, but when she pauses to lick the cum still left over - the cum that's starting to leak out again - to breathe through it, then squeeze her palm and bob her mouth down, take another inch, until the sides are stuffed and emptying out again, that's when she finally has something to say: "got anything left? I'm a little starved."

"I. Christ, yes-" you whine, which doesn't help your case at all: the image, the image of you lying flat - back with Hyeju's head tucked between your knees, her hand pulling out your cock.

Sloppy, slimy-wet.

She presses an innocent, not-at-all-innocent kiss right to your tip, puckering -

"You know what I did learn in that genetics class?" she muses, tongue flicking over her lips. Hyeju's about ready for a second helping - you're losing it. "When I first saw that DNA diagram - the double helix and all those little base pairs, and everything - it made me think of your cock. Your cock and me. Specifically our DNA. Did you know-"

She presses her palm over the head and rolls it - teases and strokes her palm - her knuckles - her fist - the whole nine. "When I hold your big fucking cock, mm, and just get it right - up in here, rubbing all along my walls - so deep, it gets me in my fucking ribs, makes me choke like I never been choked before, ah-mm," and it's this thought sliding toward the front of your mind, this perfect picture: Hyeju, getting fucked hard and open and stuffed full and stuffed good and stupid; you’ve got more than a few inches on her, can make her feel small and delicate; you know how to do her right.

But here you have Hyeju stroking the shaft - holding her hand tightly up near the head, rolling and twisting and sliding down and pushing her whole body right into the side of your legs: the soft, solid length, warm flesh and curves everywhere pressing into you.

You sit back, and just watch Hyeju with her eyes cool and composed, like half of her fucking face isn't streaked with your cum, mouth wrapped and looking fucking satisfied to be a total, gorgeous mess. She makes a dramatic display of kissing the tip again, just before telling you words you probably dreamt up at some point - either sleep deprived, or, during three AM jackoff, fantasizing. "Sometimes, just from riding your cock, I can't sit up straight."

"Fuck," and you feel your whole body run rigid, because apparently that's something you’ve been aching to hear.

You're covering her mouth again. White streaking onto her lips - where she's catching it in the well beneath her tongue and letting it spill out of the corner of her mouth. Into the crook of your thumb, which catches a drip here and there and rubs it down the length - down the curve - and pushes it back between Hyeju's pert little pout.

"Doesn't count, mister, just more pre-cum," she says, all with the audacity of a wink and smile; her words are a little garbled around the head of your cock between her teeth. And when you nod and realize just how painfully your jaw hurts, your throat becomes tight and raw, a knot pulling the underside from the center. Hyeju slides her lips lower, lower down, to the hilt and stays there, just like that - one hand holding down the flat of your belly to keep your hips still, her chin hanging - bobbing-as she feels every pulse, every twitching shift. You curl one hand around the side of her face, over the sharp edge of her jaw; rub a thumb into the delicate skin of her throat.

She shifts. You start to tell her what you like: how hot the rush comes when a girl puts her tongue against the slit at the very tip, and licks at the precum in nice, quick circles, soft and fluttering. And how her fingers shouldn't hesitate either, Hyeju's not even struggling to give it to you - god - just giving and -

She jerks her head up, swallowing down her next breath like it's one of her last. "I'm serious, if you're going to fuck a hole, start with my mouth - we can move onto everything else after."

"You're ridiculous -"

She meets her lips to your head, kissing once. Again. Kissing every inch, letting her mouth wrap around and then just - staying, just - staying like that and humming, with you, enjoying the fullness, the smell of you, the taste, the shape, just the weight and size and you.

There is spit fucking everywhere.

And if it's not clear what you're supposed to be doing - her fingers weave through yours, squeezing hard at the wrist and you can imagine: pulling her forward by her hair and holding her down while she chokes on your cock. "Fuck, Hyeju," you say, and your voice comes out way shakier than you'd like, "when, how did it get like this, huh? You always - always did, shit, always want your mouth filled."

"Never figured you to be someone who'd get turned on watching their friend sucking their cock like this."

"Doesn't everybody love the sight of their cock in a pretty girl's mouth?

"You were really convinced they weren't lining up behind you? Or anyone in the queue who can't keep their eyes off of this thing. Tell me, and try not to lie, try not to bullshit this one out: how many girls have you come home and fucked and creamed their brains out - then asked for the sloppiest, most -"

"Honestly."

"- Filthiest, nasty, ball-busting, gut-wrenching blowjob ever to make them think - to make them really start wondering what the hell it was you did - like it's gotta be something that leaves them so ruined, they can't ever not compare - can't ever not compare this moment, right here. Ever. When you give them the hardest fucking of their life, compared to any other guy - can't not, because no-one, literally no-one's cock can fuck like you do-"

"Fuck-"

"Any harder. Come on, seriously, tell me it isn't true. Come on."

Her voice - her fucking words, the tone she uses and how her words roll: honey-warm and soaking with sweet, thick degradation - she talks like sex, and that's exactly what gets you harder, like it’s something else; like it’s nothing, like it’s less, so much worse - you feel this guilty-dirty heat pool at your tailbone and push down the hard press of you throbbing all the way to her nose. And Hyeju smiles as much as she's capable around the fat, round stretch, humming around the warm taste of you, before opening wide and sinking her throat on it.

There's nothing like it.

You've got two fists in her hair; she's so tight and wet around every god-damn inch. Her cheeks flush - hot to the touch; her tongue laving in slow, long drags, slicking your shaft nice and warm until you're balls-deep and pushing her further: a small shift to the hips, a push here, a harder, faster pull, and Hyeju's feet behind her go curling like an angry cat, wanting the tug.

A long, satisfied breath slips from the hollows of her throat.

There are tears threatening, thickening her lashes, and though she doesn't choke - you're just afraid. Every sound that she pulls out, her eyes blinking up to you as if it's only natural to love getting used by her friend's cock, like the very premise of it - swallowing down the very shape of you, dragged over her tongue and brushing cum into the back of her throat - is something she can’t go without.

But this is nothing compared to the noises from where her lips are pressed tight around you, where you're hearing and even feeling:

That gluck, gluck - where her chest spasms just the slightest when her nose gets nuzzled right into your belly and you remember how much she likes to hear you talk dirty, how fucking wet it gets her. The heavy, deep breaths, gasps; the strangled moans when your hips just buck - the heat and the thrill, and this is better than every other time because there's just something in this moment -

"I'm not gonna come again, not like this. Not in your mouth. You can’t-"

But Hyeju refuses to hear a word; just pumps your shaft faster, feeling it's familiar hardness grow and throb and ache and retch, all her effort paying off: you're slick with precum and spit, hard and straining, the whole shaft begging for release - all because of her. And Hyeju won't stop, she pushes her cheek onto your thigh and then taps a hand there to pull your hips. The motion drives your cock further still inside her. Until it’s bathed in her spit, your cum, all this mess.

Until it's reaching, choking her, and the muffled sounds she's making are filthy and wet and so incredulously hot.

But god. Hyeju has something of a temper and a habit, too: with those big beautiful eyes and the perfect plump of her pouting lips, her tits swelling up around, when your grip slips on her shoulder, and her mouth goes tighter - how the pleasure begins to make you unbearably cruel and you push her away from you, only for a second -

She doesn't wait or seem to care; Hyeju follows the cock with her whole head and whimpers so hotly in her throat when it plops right back on her tongue. "That's more - more like - fuck, oh, there we go," her nose and fingers prodding.

You groan through a high, strangled whimper, a helpless shiver that turns into an uncontrollable roll of the hips - you can't believe it: she's already so thoroughly debauched and defaced; just fucking painted with it. Your cum dripping off her chin and rolling down her neck.

"Fuck - gonna make me - ah, Jesus -"

When Hyeju seems to have reached her fill, the feeling, you're cumming - pumping the length of your shaft. And the moment she feels you twitch and throb and that first hot spill lands in the bend of her mouth, it's as if she understands and holds herself tight - her legs going stock-still while your eyes blow up behind her, your cock spewing another and then another thick, milky load into her mouth, over her tongue: all along the topography of her throat - sticky cum landing in every ridge and valley -

Hyeju catches as much as she can. What little she can. You cum and pump and gush so much that when you're finally finished - done - every last drop spent and given - your cock throbs soft between her fingers; her chin is a complete and utter mess and her chest heaves with the sound of her catching her own breath. Hyeju groans softly and just swishes the load around in her mouth for a bit as if wanting to remember its feel and weight before lifting her eyes to look into yours. You can just barely see the color.

"Jesus, Hyeju-"

The entire bit of it, slick and shining-wet. With a small moan, a sound from the back of her throat: one swallow and the cum is gone, disappeared, vanished. She smiles like she didn't just ruin your entire goddamn life and, with her body limp and exhausted beside you - her gentle hand rubbing a flat stroke over your thigh before yours slips up to meet her chin.

"You," you curse and roll your eyes, catching the mess at the edge of her jaw, the very little left in the corners of her lips. You feed the cum over her bottom lip - her chin, her throat - watching your friend: Hyeju's throat, bobbing. "Really didn't have to," you start, but you realize just how useless a point it is to make.

She's smiling and biting and showing you what's left between the tips of her canines. "Do you always do this to the people who suck you off?"

"That's an awful habit. A pretty girl's lips aren't meant to get that messy," you reply.

"Oh." She frowns. "Well, I do a lot of things I shouldn't."

"God, seriously," and you think there's no greater hell, no sweeter pain than whatever's lingering in these little aftershocks - this fizzling and dying sort of pain, where the body is buzzed with all you're aching for. It's impossible to stop this train of thoughts, is the fucking feeling of her-

But just then, Hyeju rises to her knees, a new spark in her eyes, as she grabs ahold of your wrist and tugs you off the sheets, a few inches closer.

"And you," she purrs as she drags the palm of your hand across her neck and collarbone, collecting what remains and making the perfect image, "well - you are going to help clean me up, like you said before." She sits tall; the arch of her spine is pronounced - her back, so, very, slightly tapering, to where your hand slips right off the last of it: the wide flare of her hips. "Now isn't that the gentleman's thing to do?" she asks.

"Of course." You sigh, resigned and in desperate need of water. "Of course," you add and smirk a little and slip your hand lower, toward where her skin is getting hot, and her body, "let's get you clean."

"Mm." She's already grinning. "You know what wasn't in those textbooks?"

"Oh, I can only guess." You bite your cheek and start to lower yourself back. "Give it a try."

Hyeju drags you by the wrist toward the hall, the bathroom, ostensibly the shower -

"There's no way in hell you don't want to put a baby in me, like, right fucking now."

"Is that what we're doing?"

Hyeju makes a face like you're stupid - she might've grabbed a towel on the way out. She wipes her chin a little while walking - the corner of her mouth where, well - where it looks like a little dribble has somehow remained. "No. But you’re going to fuck me like it is."

(There's got so much on her mind.

The door of the shower rattling in its frame as she struggles standing up against it. Getting fucked so fast and full, the feeling of both your hands cupped beneath the weight of her breasts. It's not the fact of where you are and your situation, per say - more about the immediate, the imperative nature. About fucking you. She was already feeling herself like, leaking the moment the door shut, so all that waiting, all that patience, really - and it's what drove her insane when you were, well: like that, after she put her mouth around your cock, made a right and proper mess of herself, and sucked you off.

Though there's less on her mind, clearly, when she cums all over your cock.

She's crying with her tits up onto the glass, your palm holding her ribs. Your cum-slick cock working itself hard again as it slips, back and forth, as you're fucking her open, spread apart. It's your finger in her asshole. That's what's on her mind then. How the press of your knuckle lights her entire fucking spine on fire - how the other hand finds her clit in all this, too, when you're no longer supporting the both of you but rather Hyeju is folding on her bent knee and trusting, on shaking and shivering, raw nerves, that you're not going to collapse.

"Fucking. God, please-"

There's the harsh slap of flesh - skin on wet skin, your palms against the sides of her ass and the curve of the breast. But otherwise - it's you, sighing - soft and gentle, like you can't get over the feel of her. "Hyeju, oh-fucking, god, fucking," is what you're saying, and it doesn't end up really mattering which one of you came last because she can feel you twitching, squelching in and out with how badly you're wanting to explode inside, but also you can feel her cunt absolutely begging, this fucking fluttering and clamping down on every thrust and the moment you manage to grind this angle she loses her ability to speak properly because you're not just, like - fucking her-

Just, absolutely, completely pounding her pussy, stretching her insides, dragging and sliding along the walls; each rough rub and thrust makes her knees quiver until her body is trembling and falling. But mostly her voice, the sharp gasp that shakes into her, how her nails are scraping the walls of the shower stall and she's saying - telling, crying and asking and wondering and pleading - just utterly astounded:

"Amazing," she huffs, breathes coming out cloudy and true onto the pane of glass, "you - it’s, fucking amazing.")

“And I am… Ironman.”

Your eyes flicker awake, hazy, as Tony Stark snaps his fingers, killing himself alongside Thanos’ army in the process.

The TV's long been running on background noise, though not as ambient. Its characters now bickering between the rubble and ruins and being picked up for the end credits. In the dark of the screen, you see Hyeju had nodded off and slumped over the side of your body. A new year means new beginning means resolutions and diets and gym routines -

Maybe no sooner than the sun can come up, apparently.

You lean over to grab your phone from the table: 4:14 A.M.

There's a lot of things you want to say, even more you want to hear, but your mind has begun to settle a bit - a lazy and dreamy thing that fills you with this sort of, tired kind of - not sad, or empty - no, of course not. That's hardly fitting; not after tonight. You want to wrap this in an idealistic sort of sentiment - maybe hold Hyeju close and let the hour carry you and the comfort be enough to forgive whatever there is to miss: like the fact, it's still really dark, so dark even outside. The moon reflecting off the sheet of snow on the street. And not even a distant dog barking, or car driving by or someone playing loud music in the early hours of the new year.

As the film drifts off into another set of commercials, you slip into an easy sleep that feels effortless. Your head drops, landing on the cushion by the arm of the couch, where Hyeju's hand begins to slip mindlessly across your belly, tickling your waist and causing you to slightly squirm - things are cooling down, but still a little agitated.

"Don't tell me you're waking me up, cause I just -"

She kisses the pulse at your throat and answers, mumbling half-words into the spot below your ear. "A kiss for a new year."

And maybe the world doesn't owe you anything at all.

Maybe it just gave you more than enough.

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