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margotw10bis · 5 months

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Champagne Confetti. JJK [m]

boyfriend!Jungkook x camgirl!reader

Genre: smut (basically a porn with a plot)

Words: 6.1k

Synopsis: Your boyfriend loves watching you on live but his whole mood changes when he reads one specific comment from one of your fans

Warnings (be ready): live sex; rough sex; face ridding; squirting (olympics waterfall y'all); multiple orgasms (idk how oc is still alive)

Jungkook is enjoying the show. How can he not when his girlfriend has her legs wide open and enters her dripping pussy with two fingers. The pleasure makes you loudly moan and your eyes roll back. You smile brightly, looking straight with lustful eyes. You are definitely hot right now, you know it. And if you didn't, the hundred of comments in the chat would inform you.

Someone is complimenting the pink leds' reflection on your skin, another one wishes you could use the dildo you've showed a few days ago, and a new comment praises you for being 'a sweet good girl'. You smile instantly at it because you know damn well that it comes from your boyfriend. To please him, you enhance the pace of your digits entering you and pinch your hard nipple just like he likes. You're one second away from moaning his name but you know you can't, so you settle for:

"I'm playing with my little pussy just for you"

Even if Jungkook is in his couch, a few miles away from your place, he gets that you are talking to him and his hard cock twitches in his pants. He is mindlessly caressing himself through his sweatpants. You've told him a hundred of times that he could stay at your place when you work but he has declined every single time. Your boyfriend knows he doesn't have the strength to hear you pleasuring yourself a few feet away without storming in and fucking you rough. You wouldn't mind but, after a long conversation with him, you have learnt that he doesn't want to appear on camera. And you totally get it, even though you would love him to fuck you on camera.

You know that your job is not a common one and that some people are very judgmental. However, you love sex and you get paid for it. You turn on your camera, use your fingers or toys to make you cum and that's it. You know that you also please other people, so what's wrong with that? And one of the things you love the most about Jungkook is that he has never judged you. He loves you just the way you are, with all the things that come with you — including your cam girl occupation.

When you turn on your vibrator, a beautiful toy in a baby blue color, you think about Jungkook — especially since he is the one who gave it to you. You place it on your sensitive clit and your groans get louder. You are very close to cum and you know that the way you get choked up by pleasure is enjoyed by your audience because the cash is flowing.

Your boyfriend smirks from the other side of the screen. You are so fucking beautiful when your face is torn by pleasure. He absolutely loves seeing your juices dripping down your ass and land on your bed, drawing a wet spot on it. It's so fucking hot. Jungkook loves how your head rolls back when you are close to cum. But that's also why you don't see the comment that makes Jungkook's heart stop: 'I can fuck you better than your loser of a boyfriend'.

———

"Baby, what's wrong?"

Your worry is well noticeable on your face. Jungkook, despite being as sweet as ever, has grown a little... distant. At first, you thought you were imagining things but now you have no doubt. During your usual movie date at your place — you have a much bigger screen than Jungkook —, you were trying to switch your cuddling into something... else. But Jungkook has stopped your hands from reaching his crotch area. You wouldn't be surprised if he didn't want sex because men don't always want sex. But he doesn't even let you touch him and that has never happened during the eight months you have been together.

You are feeling stressed and sad. Did you do something wrong? Or is he leaving you like your exes because, despite Jungkook saying he is okay with your job, he might not be at the end of the day?

"Is it me?" You lowly ask, pain and unsureness in your voice

Jungkook's head immediately snaps toward you and he cups your face. He doesn't want you to be hurt just because his little ego has been bruised. It's not your fault, not at all.

"No, of course not!" He exclaims and it soothes your heart a little

"Then, tell me"

Jungkook sighs. Is it even worth saying? It's so stupid. Your boyfriend shouldn't feel threatened by a stranger on the Internet but he can't help it.

"I... There was a comment on your chat the other day" He starts and you tilt your head out of curiosity "It said that they could fuck you better than me"

You bust into laugh but quickly stop when you see no sign of humour in your boyfriend's dark eyes.

"They just talk, they feel brave behind a screen. I'm sure the guy wouldn't even make me cum. Baby, you know it's not true" You argue and settle a gentle kiss on his cheek

"No, I don't" Jungkook replies with a harsh and hurt tone, his jaws clenched

You're taken aback. You stay silent for a minute, wondering how could you make Jungkook understand that he is the best sex you've ever had. But there is not a hundred solutions. You tell him to wait until you call him.

You go to your bedroom, light up your pink leds, change your clothes for Jungkook's favorite underwear — a matching black lacy bra and thong — and prep everything for him. When everything is neat, you sit on your bed covered with pink silk sheets and call him.

Surprise is painting his face. He gulps when he notices how powerful and sexy you look right now. You pat the spot next to you on the bed to urge your boyfriend to sit, which he does. You immediately capture his lips with yours.

The kiss gets heated. You lick his rings in the corner of his lower lip and then slide your tongue into his mouth. You are quick to change position to sit on his lap and deepen the kiss. You have always loved how his tongue felt soft against you.

You grab his hands to place them on your ass and you smirk when they squeeze it. It's just a reflex, Jungkook can't control it. Neither can he control his hardening dick. You grind on it, pressing your already wet pussy against the bulge forming on his black sweatpants and rolling your hips at a sensual pace. You rest a hand on his large shoulder while the other one tugs on his black locks.

"Babe—" Jungkook tries to argue but you prevent him from talking with a bite on his lower lip, making it swollen and red

You grab the hem of his t-shirt and lift it up until you can take it off from your boyfriend's hot body. You glance at his brawny torso and run your index on the ink darkening his arm. You have always loved the tattoo on his shoulder. Your hand reaches up again to caress it before going South to his abs. You smile when you notice that your caresses cut Jungkook's breathe.

You attack his throat with your lips, settling wet kisses and bitting his thin skin. You suck on it to mark him because the purple hickeys always look so good on him. You know that you just have to tease him a little more for Jungkook to go wild, that's why you poke out your tongue and take a fat lap from his collarbone to his ear. You gently bite the lobe between two earrings and whisper :

"I want you to fuck me so hard I won't be able to walk tomorrow"

The low growl coming from Jungkook makes you shiver with horniness and you know you're going to get what you wanted. You instantly feel him spanking harshly the soft flesh of your asscheeks. You moan at the burn but you don't have time to appreciate it because Jungkook lands another slap on your left cheek. It tickles so fucking good that you have to bite on his neck to prevent a long scream of pleasure. Your pussy is so, so wet that it's staining your boyfriend's pants.

He digs his fingers so deep into the flesh of your ass that his knuckles turn white and that it'll leave bruises on your flesh. He uses his grip to spread your asscheeks and gets a full view on your two glistening holes in the mirror placed in front of your bed. Even with the dimmed light, he clearly sees how your arousal is smeared all over your cunt.

"You messy girl. Do you see how dirty you are?" He lowly growls

He doesn't wait for an answer and slaps your — already red and abused — ass. The sound of the spank echoes in your bedroom, the same way it's followed by your choked moan. How can Jungkook doubt about how good he makes you feel?

You sneak a hand on your back to undo your bra and offer a great view on your tits. You press your breasts against Jungkook's face and you feel the vibration more than you hear his moan. He leaves messy kisses everywhere on your boobs, sucking the flesh from time to time. Your head rolls back and you arch your back when he captures a hard nipple between his teeth. He is chewing on it and a pool of arousal leaks from your clenching pussy. He then roughly sucks on it, just like he would do if he wanted to suckle on a bottle.

One of his hand appears to grab your other tit, slightly slapping it too. The air gets kicked off your lungs when Jungkook suddenly bites the nipple he had in his mouth, provoking a loud whine from you. The pain mix with pleasure when he rolls his tongue around it to soothe you.

You push him on the bed so he rests his back on your mellow mattress and swiftly place your knees on both sides of his handsome face. You give him a last smile before you sit down on his face.

You feel his tongue pressing against your covered clit and you can't help but roll your hips. With a precise movement, Jungkook's inked fingers hook your thong and push it aside so he can directly access your cunt. His tongue slides up and down your slick folds and his nose bumps onto your clit. Your moans are filling your room and you have no choice but to grab your boyfriend's hair to steady yourself. You are glad that he still has long locks and only cut short the sides.

"Fuck, baby, it's so good" You groan but you get choked up when he suddenly suck on your clit "Oh my fucking god!"

Jungkook smirks against your pussy while your juices are leaking down all over his face. He grabs your ass and makes you grind on his face at a fast pace. Your brain gets foggy at the feeling of his expert tongue and nose bumping against your bud of nerves and sliding onto your vulva. You press deeper to feel more, not caring if you're suffocating Jungkook. You are too deep into pleasure to care and you know he has enough strength to push you away if he needs to. His tongue teases your entrance but never gets in, preferring rolling around your clit instead to drive you crazy.

"Fuck, I'm gonna cum" You inform him and you get closer when Jungkook digs his fingers deeper into the flesh of your ass

"Make me drink that potion" He teases against your wetness

Your arousal gets the grinding real smooth on your boyfriend's ruined face and it's fucking hot. He even jiggles his head from left to right at a quick pace to reach all the spots of your pussy, filling your bedroom with sloppy and oh so hot sounds, and you explode. You're cumming hard and the spasms of your body have rarely been so strong. You don't even have the strength to keep your upper body up and fall miserably on your bed with a goofy grin.

"Good girl" He praises

With a predator eye, Jungkook pokes his tongue out and licks your juices on his lips. It does little to clean him up because there are traces of your arousal on his chin, cheeks and nose. All his lower face is glistening with your wetness that it's fucking hot. He grabs his former t-shirt that was abandoned on your bed and wipes off his face.

"You're beautiful" You whisper, making Jungkook smile and his eyes get more affectionate

"You are more, baby" He replies and prevents you from arguing by capturing yours lips

You taste your cum on his tongue and moan in the kiss. Your hands work on his pants to push it down, along with his briefs. He is so hard right now that his cock twitches instantly when you grab it. You love how thick he is, he always stretches you well.

"I want to feel you in me" You tell him

Jungkook only replies with a nod and scoots over just the time to completely peel him naked. Your eyes travel through his perfect body, from his shoulders to his strong thighs passing through his abs. However, it's his dick that attracts you the most. You bite your lower lip and open your legs wider for your boyfriend.

You're surprised when two of his digits enter your pussy without warning. Your eyes shut of pleasure and your moans gets unsteady because of the depth and velocity of his fingering. He is shaking your whole body through your poor cunt. You are still very sensitive from your first orgasm and Jungkook is screwing deep and roughly. You can only grab your sheets and your toes curl up when Jungkook curves his fingers to pump on your g-spot.

He goes so harshly on you that you can't think anymore. You are not even aware of your screams and cum in a record time, squirting all over your boyfriend — for his greatest pleasure. You even splash your sheets and his abs.

"You are so dirty" He purrs in your ear but he is the only driving you crazy when he spreads the juices of his soaked hand on his member as he is jerking himself off

You can't believe you have cummed this hard in such a little time. It's not the first time Jungkook makes you squirt but usually it takes way more time and only appears at the end of your fuck when you have already reached your high a couple of times.

"They should see how fucked up you get when you're with me" He cockily says, referring to your viewers "You are such a little slut for me. Do you even cum with other men?"

His question is backed up with a pinch on your nipple.

"You're the only one" You reply in a whine

Your answer satisfies your boyfriend and he bends over to kiss you, way tender now. He takes place between your legs and the mess you've done allows him to enter you in a swift motion, all the way until his balls are pressed against your ass. Your moan is longer as the pleasure is traveling through your entire body. Your walls are so stretched that you wonder how you are not split in half already.

"I should fuck you on live to make this motherfucker shut his fucking mouth" He growls in your ear as he gives you the first dick strokes — deep and slow to enhance the sensuality

"You should, baby" You whisper and your walls clench around his fat cock because the idea is really arousing

As he starts thrusting into you with a quicker pace, you manage to reach his throat and suck hickeys. Jungkook intertwines his fingers with yours with one of his hands while the other one roughly cups your face to give you a messy kiss, full of tongues and saliva. The way Jungkook is rolling his hips allows him to reach all the right spots inside you. Your eyes roll in the back of your head as you groan his name — groan that is immediately swallowed by his mouth. Your arousal is coating his length but you have so much more that it's rolling down his balls.

He fucks you with so much force that your bed cracks but it's a problem for later. You can't think about anything else than him when he kisses the thin skin of your throat, biting it from time to time. Your legs wrap around his tiny waist to keep him close and prevent him from stopping, even through he is not planning to.

Jungkook slightly lifts up so he can see your tits bouncing in rhythm. It's so hot that he fuck you rougher just to enhance the movement and pinch a hard nipple with his fingertips. He is fucking so rawly that sweat is coving his body and is making his black strands of hair stick to his forehead. Sounds of your clapping skins fill your bedroom, creating a beautiful music for his ears, especially with your whined moans. A fun idea lightens up in his head and he wraps a hand around your throat, choking you perfectly. Your poor cunt throbs around him. Why does he have to be so fucking good? He knows you so well.

"Scream how much you love when I fuck you" He teases you but tightens the grip around your neck

It gets hard to breathe, yet along to fulfill his demand.

"Hm? Tell me, baby. I can't hear you" He smirks "Be a good girl and let everyone knows how good I fuck you"

You want to say it desperately but you can't. Only chocked moans escape your lips. But all of a sudden, Jungkook takes off his hand and gives you a particularly rough dick stroke. The oxygen rushing to your brain and the air being kicked out of your lungs make you so high on sex.

"I love it!" You scream "No one can fuck me better"

"Who's whore are you?" He cockily asks

"Yours!" You moan

"Louder" He growls, his hand settling back on your throat but not tightening too much

"I'm your whore!" You whine as you feel your walls clenching around his cock

"Good" He gives you a harsh pounding "Fucking" Another one "Girl" And another one

You love it so much that your smaller hand lands on his to urge him to squeeze your throat. Your boyfriend does it but suddenly pulls off of your throbbing dripping cunt.

"Kook!" You whine but he shhhes you and rolls his fingers hard and fast around your clit

It's so sudden and intense that your breathe gets cut and that you giggle to escape the unbearable pleasure. However, the fist around your neck prevents you from running away from his ministrations. You're wet, soaked even, and Jungkook's fingers can roll smoothly on your bud. It doesn't stop your boyfriend from spitting on it, just to make your cunt messier. Your pussy is clenching around nothing but you're close again. You have asked Jungkook to fuck you rough, and he is giving what you wanted.

His frenetic pace on your clit plays with the border of pain and you can't hold on anymore. You squirm and your body is experiencing spasms from another powerful orgasm. You grab his forearm to stop his abuse on your poor throbbing clit when the overstimulation becomes too much to handle.

"Fuck, baby" Jungkook whispers is awe, amazed by how beautiful you are when you reach cloud nine

You are panting and your brain feels like wax. You need time to recover from the intensity of the three past orgasms. You close your eyes and rest your head on a fluffy pillow.

"I'm not done with you, baby" Jungkook murmurs as he caresses your skin with the tip of his fingers, drawing goosebumps all over your body

"I need a minute" You confess as you are trying to steady your breathing "You fuck me too good"

Your boyfriend chuckles and lands a multitude of pecks on your cheek, your throat, your shoulder, your boobs and pretty much everywhere. However, you are way too much into the bliss of your post-orgasmic state to notice how your boyfriend's pierced lips are traveling South. It's only when his mouth kisses your oversensitive clit that you jolt and squeak.

His vicious tongue pokes out and slyly licks the arousal leaking from your pussy. He looks like a cat licking its milk but you know he is as lethal as a lion. You throw a — what you want to be — death stare but Jungkook smirks because, deep into your eyes, he sees your lust. You can't deny that the sight of Jungkook between your legs is sinful and perfect. But shivers run through your body when his tongue takes another lap of your ruined cunt.

"I need to clean up my little dirty girl" He purrs and swallows a little bit more of your juices "Taste so sweet, baby"

"Fuck" You moan and you instinctively open your legs a little bit wider

Thankfully, Jungkook goes gentle on you — otherwise, you are not sure you would survive.

"You don't know how much I love eating your little juicy pussy" He teases you and an airy laugh escapes your lips

"I do know, you tell me every time you do it" You explain, tenderness noticeable in your voice

Jungkook and you exchange a knowing glance, right before he buries his handsome face in your folds.

"Those guys can comment all they want" He growls against your dripping pussy, slightly nodding his head toward your set up "They'll never know how you taste"

The possessiveness in his raspy voice is arousing. You love when your boyfriend claims you over other men. He is not the jealous kind — he cannot be when you're a cam girl — but he also manages to remind you that you are his in the most perfect way: fucking.

You cup his chin with your hand to force Jungkook to look at you. Seriousness paints your face when you tell him:

"I don't want anyone else than you. Do you understand?"

Jungkook nods and happiness fills up his chest, spurring him to capture your lips — the upper ones this time. You both smile in the kiss but your sneaky hand finds its way to Jungkook's cock. You jerk him off slowly, appreciating his velvety — yet sticky with your juices — skin.

"Get on your knees" He commands against your swollen lips

You get on all fours and arch your back like you know Jungkook loves it and swing your ass from side to side. Your boyfriend gets to see how wet you still are despite his little cleaning. He lands a rough slap on your ass and squeeze your cheeks.

He then wraps his hand at the base of his hard and thick cock and guides it to your entrance. He teases a little, hooking his tip in your hole just to poke it out. He does it a couple of times, hoaxing a begging from you to finally fill you up.

You gasp when he enters you all the way. You can feel him so deep when he fucks you from behind. It's like his fat cock is stretching you even better. Jungkook digs his fingers into the flesh of your asscheeks and spreads them to fully admire how your little cunt takes his dick, coated it with your arousal at the same time.

"Fuck, baby..." He hisses in bliss

His dick strokes are not gentle, making you jolt at each single one of them. You burry your face in your sheets to mitigate as well as you can your loud moans. Drool is leaking from your open mouth and you realize that your boyfriend is fucking you dumb. The thought is so pleasant that you clench around him.

"You pussy is so tight" He growls and he accompanies his words with a spank on your already red and bruised ass

Jungkook goes further in sins when he lifts up his thumb to his mouth to coat it with spit and smudges it on your pucker hole. You gasp and feel a wave of arousal when he pushes his digit into it. Fuck, it's so hot... The intrusion is so fucking good, making your pussy even wetter — it's now just a big pool of your juices. Your walls clench sporadically around him, notifying him how much you love it. It's no secret anyway, Jungkook has already fucked your ass in the past.

You love hearing how his sweaty skin is clapping against yours, and you love feeling your ass getting slapped by his lap at each pounding. Your boyfriend has to hold you tight to prevent you from falling on your bed. Your arousal creates some sticky threads connecting your two bodies, disappearing when he bottoms up and drawing new ones when he pulls off to the tip. Jungkook curses when he looks at it. It's fucking hot...

"You make me do all the work, you little slut" He complains

He halts his movements. You know what he wants but you also know that his order is arousing so you wait for it.

"Come on, fuck yourself on my cock like the good girl you are" He whispers lowly but his cockiness pierces in his voice "Show me how much you want it"

Jungkook feels your walls clenching and it paints a smirk on his lips. He watches you pushing your ass back to swallow his dick and then moving forward to the tip, just to push back again. Your pace is rough and you make sure to harshly hit his pelvis when you take his member deep into you. You look like a maniac, empaling yourself on his thick cock, but you can't think about it because you love it too much. Your cunt is throbbing from the past orgasms and is sensitive from all the poundings and yet, you want more.

Your boyfriend knows you way too well. He sneaks his inked hand in your hair and harshly tugs on it, forcing you to lift up your upper body and rest your back against his brawny chest. Your scalp hurts in the most delicious way and your tits bounce when Jungkook takes control of the thrustings. You look up and smirk when you notice your set up in front on you. This insane, animalistic and perfect fuck all began because of this... You should thank your fans because Jungkook has never fucked you this good.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck and sucks more hickeys on your already redden and purple skin. The hand that was in your hair travels down to wrap your throat while the other one, sly, reaches your clit. You gasp when Jungkook starts circle motions on your bud.

"Oh my god, I'm gonna cum!" You say in a breathe when you feel your cunt clenching

Despite the tightening of your walls, you are so aroused that your juices are dripping down in your inner thighs, making a mess of Jungkook's cock too.

"You are such a good fucking whore for me" He whispers in your ear, biting your lobe too

Your hands try to handle on his strong forearm as your sloppy pussy gets ruined by your boyfriend's poundings and his raw pace. Your eyes roll in the back of your head, your mouth falls open, your cunt throbs and your breathe gets cut off as his expert fingers on your clit drive you closer to the edge. You are so close, you know it and Jungkook knows it too. That's why he fucks you even rougher, earning some whines from you, and bites your neck, marking you in all the possible ways.

You almost passed out when you cum as white dots paints your vision.

"Baby!" You moan, scream or whisper — you can't know

Thankfully, Jungkook firmly holds you against him, otherwise you would be falling miserably on your bed since your forces abandon you at the same time the wave of pleasure washes over you. Your walls throb and your lower stomach contracts as you squirt again, ruining your silk pink sheets and Jungkook's cock. Your whole body is shaken by spasms due to the power of your orgasm. Why does you boyfriend love so much pushing your limits? Because he knows that you love it just as much.

"Such a dirty girl" He purrs in your ear but you barely register it since you are still in the fog "Look at the mess you have made"

To accentuate his words, he lifts up the hand that was on your clit at the level of your face and shakes it. Drops of your cumming fly all around.

"Rain, rain, rain" He laughs lowly, not thrusting anymore but keeping his hard cock deep inside you "You can't fake it"

You want to reply something, like that you would never do it and that Jungkook really does fuck you good, but you have cotton mouth.

"Look at how fucked up you are!" He mocks you "And this motherfucker thinks he can fuck you better?" His low laugh is full of cockiness but it's the truth

His wet fingers caress your lips and you part them out of instinct. Jungkook takes the opportunity to fill your mouth with his digits and watches in awe how well you suck on them. You hum at your taste and appreciate being able to drink something.

"My sweet good girl" He says gentler, kissing your cheek

"Baby, I don't know if I can take it anymore" You confess, turning your head to look at his handsome face

You can spot the affection in his doe eyes.

"Just one last time and I'm gonna fill your little pussy up. I promise"

His words are raw but his tone is soft, just like the kiss he settles on your lips. You nod and his big palm comes up to caress your cheek. It soothes you and allows you a moment of peace before the big finale.

Jungkook circles your frame with his strong arms and falls on his back with you. The surprise makes you squeak and you could laugh if his cock buried in your cunt wasn't making you moan instead.

You dig your feet in the mattress on both sides of his thighs, takes supported on his pecs with your hands and start some ups and downs on his length. His tip is perfectly hitting your g-spot and if Jungkook wasn't helping you to settle a quick pace with his hands on your hips, you know that your legs would crash down because of the pleasure.

It feels so good to have him this deep inside you. Your tits bounce and your moans get lost in your bedroom. Your boyfriend turns his head to the side to get a peak at you fucking yourself on his fat cock in the mirror.

"Fuck, baby, you're so hot" He praises you and you thank him with a squeeze of your cunt

His thumbs caress your skin at the same time. The movement is slight but you manage to feel it. It does some weird tricks in your chest and you quicken your pace. The only problem is that the marathon of orgasms Jungkook's put you through seriously decreases your stamina. It's getting very hard for you to jump on his cock, even though you absolute love the way he is filling you.

"Baby..." You whisper in a breathe "Need you..."

You don't have to finish your sentence because Jungkook understands.

"I got you" He reassures you

He makes you rest your back on his chest, wraps arms under the back of knees to get a full access to your cunt — making you tighter in the process as your thighs are pressed against each other — and firmly plants his feet on your bed. His poundings are so harsh that your head rolls back and no sounds escape your open mouth. You almost faint because of the pleasure provided by his dick strokes in your tight and swollen cunt.

"Fuuuuck" You whine

Tears are gathering at the corners of your eyes. Jungkook is fucking you too good for your own sanity. The way his thrustings are accompanied by loud skin clapping sounds is fucking arousing. Your juices are dripping down your ass to create a mess on your boyfriend's balls.

"Oh my god!" You moan when rough slap hits the side of your ass

Your toes curl and your brain gets foggy: you know you are close. There have been too many orgasms for you to count and you have now no strength to delay them. Jungkook has turned into a fuck-machine, leaving no rest for your poor pussy. You are amazed by his stamina.

"Are you going to tell them who fucks you good?" He purrs

"You fuck me good! So fucking good, baby" You exclaim in a state of euphoria

Your voice is even shaking because of his poundings — that's how much he is ruining you. You sob at his raw dick strokes, you are way more sensitive than usual.

"I'm gonna fuck you on live and everyone will know who's little slut you are. Isn't it that right, baby? Do you want me to ruin you in front of the whole Internet?" He teases you

"Oh, fuck yes!"

"Good girl" He praises, quickly pecking your shoulder

"Kook, I'm gonna... I'm gonna..."

You can't finish your sentence that you explode once again. Only this time, Jungkook enhances his pace which makes you squirt for some long seconds and you wonder if you will ever gonna stop.

"Don't stop!" You urge him while you are sobbing

Your boyfriend swipes your pussy at a rapid pace with his hand to extend your cumming and to make a bigger mess with your juices splashing everywhere. You can't hold back your scream of pleasure. You have never cummed so hard and God knows that you know what you are talking about.

"Champagne confetti" Jungkook laughs when the waterfall ends

"Please, cum" You beg him

The tiredness is noticeable in your voice. You can't take it anymore and his poundings are painful despite the remaining pleasure.

"I'm close, baby, just hold on a little bit more"

Jungkook frees your legs and you rest your feet on his strong thighs helping him to ruin you. His inked hand cups your face and turn it to his. He captures your lips in a messy kiss, swallowing your moans. You are so lost in pleasure that you don't know what is reality anymore. The only thing you are sure about is him.

"Fill me up" You whisper against his pierced lips

You can only feel him nod and, with a last powerful dick stroke, he buries his cock deep inside you and releases his seeds inside you. You sigh in content and Jungkook whispers some soothing compliments. He hugs you tight but you are too tired to do anything.

Your sheets, just like your cunt, are ruined and soaked with your juices. You roll on your side and Jungkook's cock pulling off your pussy causes his white cum to leak. You don't really care anyway.

"Are you okay? Was I too much?" Jungkook worries as he witnesses your exhausted state

"It was good, baby" You reassure him but keep your eyes closed

You sneak against him and hug him as tight as you can with a weak body. You hear his beating heart in his chest as you rest your head on it. You hum, so happy to have him in your life. Your boyfriend kisses the top of your head.

"I have to tell you something" You murmur "Promise you won't be mad"

"I promise"

"Before I called you, I turned on a live... So everyone did see us fucking" You confess, hoping that Jungkook won't feel betrayed or anything

"I know. I saw the red light of your camera"

You lift up your head and witness some playfulness in his eyes. You offer him a bright smile and kiss him passionately. Fuck, you are so lucky to have Jungkook. His hands land on your bruised ass. You scoot over and turn to the camera. You look fucked up — and you are indeed. A smirk paints your lips and you look straight into the camera lens.

"No one can fuck me better than him" You announce and end up the live

#bts jungkook #bts fanfic #bts smut #bts #smut #jjk smut #jjk x reader #kpop #fanfic #drabble #bts drabble #bts one shot #jeon jungkook #jungkook

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p0rchc0ll4ps3 · 2 years

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Actually a lot of y'all ftc peeps seem really cool and I'd like to talk and plot with y'all but I am so shy and scared of fucking things up coz lord knows I've fucked things up before 😔

#something something every time I make a friend and trust them there's the potential for my evil nasty side to leak through #and I get so fucking ruined by rejection I'm always scared to reach out #worst they can say is no is a really good saying but for me coz of my stinky brain i take no as oh I'm hated of course they don't like me #I'm unwanted my ocs suck Etc even tho I KNOW that's not it #this sounds like a me begging for attention but it's NOT #just throwing my symptoms out into the void to explain part of the reason I'm so shy #also I just have this innate thought in my head that all of y'all already have good friends and stuff and if I talk I'll be interrupting #which is also probably not true but yeah #I've been closed out of so many circles it's just .. like I always think man is it worth it??#but yeha not necessarily a vent! just an explanation #also I know what I have I just don't want to put it on my blog. it's my personal brain issues n only people I trust trust get to know #but yeah don't take this as a me vagueing to beg for attention #this is justa thoughts in the void #feel free to ignore (genuine and non threatening)!#it just takes a lot of energy for me to connect with people and then a lot of energy to keep up the connections and a lot of energy to push #out the thoguhts that I'm not wanted #so then at some pt I just give up coz I have other things to do haha #like draw! or write! or apply to grad school! etc #energy must be used wisely. one only has so many spell slots a day

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uglypastels · 13 days

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Ridlington Park | I | Eddie Munson regency!au

Author's Note: It has been a long, long time, but I am back with another obnoxious AU. I hope you enjoy as we embark on this new adventure in Regency England. This story has been in the works for almost 2 years and is still far from finished, but I am having too much fun with this and have way too many ideas on where to take it, so suggestions are very much appreciated.

Word Count: 10k

Do be warned, Dear Reader, for this story in its entirety may contain:

female!reader. slow burn. forbidden romance. jealousy. pining. smut. alcohol consumption. swearing. OC family. horses. talks of arranged marriage. historical facts as well as trivial inaccuracies.

Due to the adult nature of the story, this author also kindly but sternly requires underage readers to pursue other works.

Author's Previous Works | Correspondence | Join the Taglist

Chapter One: A Game of Perseverance

“I do not want people to be very agreeable, as it saves me the trouble of liking them.”

– Jane Austen, Letter to her sister Cassandra, 1798

Three stories high, full of balconied windows, the house stood tall and overlooked the entire street. Ridlington Park, they called it, and situated at the centre of life–that is, London–the front door of the building was enveloped in flowers matching the seasons all year long. Currently, it was bright peonies that caught the onlooker’s eye. The perfectly trimmed bushes and trees were planted symmetrically, leading up to the front doors, giving visitors the right impression of what they could await once they stepped inside.

The residing family had spent a good fortune and effort ensuring the house represented them perfectly: clean, fortunate, and grand, but all done so in the utmost respectable and modest fashion as they were never the ones to boast. The walls had a light, warm tone reminiscent of early mornings in Spring, and the interior was decorated with portraits, new and old, beautiful oil sceneries of lands near and far, and busts and vases.

The evening was slowly approaching, the sun setting over the windows of the drawing room, enwrapping everything in a golden glow. The family sat silently around the room, giving each other the peace and quiet required for an uneventful afternoon followed by a slow night of fortunate sleep. The only sound appreciated was the pianoforte siding against the window, gracefully played by Mother. Four children sat around the separate corners of their world, enjoying the music while focusing on their own activities. Like most nights, these consisted of either reading or needlework, engaging in small conversations with one another occasionally.

As typical as any evening at Ridlington Park, it was highly unusual for the rest of London– a city which runs on scandals and gossip. Outside, the streets were bustling with lords and ladies of the Ton making their way back home from the markets, gardens and their fellows’ tea parties, gossiping about the latest impropriety to have occurred. After all, such topics, no more than nonsense really, were simply inescapable. And no matter how hard they tried to ignore it all, one way or another, it would always find its way up to the Byrnwick family. Most of the time, you, Gentle Reader, could hold yourself accountable for introducing the rumours proudly, much to your brother’s annoyance, who did his best to turn the pages of his novel as loud as possible as you talked with your mother from across the room.

‘Have you heard what happened at Lady Faulkner’s ball?’

‘Yes, sordid, really.’ Your mother sighed, turning around. ‘I am sure her family is in quite the uproar.’

‘Please,’ Christopher, your brother, shut his book down in frustration, clearly incapable of making any progress amidst the conversation. ‘If she had not wanted to get caught, she should have maybe ought to think twice about being out with a man in the middle of the gardens for everyone to see.’

You glared up at him. ‘Well, it is absurd that a woman cannot even stand in a public space with a man without bringing disgrace onto her entire family.’

‘Believe me; she did much more than just standing.’ Christopher scoffed, quickly receiving a cold stare from your mother.

‘Still, it is unjust.’ You ignored his insinuations. ‘Think of how men are free to go out at any time of day or night with whomever they please.’ You stabbed your needle through the cloth a bit harsher than intended.

‘My, you sure seem to be giving all this much thought. Have you any plans we should know about, sister?’ Your brother smirked.

‘Christopher!’ Your mother scowled. ‘That is quite enough.’

‘I was only joking, Mother,’ Christopher sighed, ‘we all know she is not going anywhere anytime soon.’

You were ready to retort angrily, or at least throw your needle at him, when the doors to the drawing room opened, catching everyone’s attention by storm. Five pairs of identical eyes directly aimed at the door frame, only softening when recognising the intruders. A welcoming of surprised gasps greeted the Lord and his eldest, Nicholas, as they entered the room. Not one foot in the room, and all activities were being put to a halt as the rest of the family gathered around the men—a loving reunion after a months-long journey from the Americas.

It was a surprising return, for father and son had yet to write of their plans in recent times. The last letter was received at Ridlington Park over three weeks ago, stating that the weather was amiable, if not a bit too humid, and that the family missed each other deeply. The lack of correspondence, therefore, was also an immediate subject.

‘But why did you not write, dear?’ asked Mother, after embracing her son. Nicholas was too occupied by his youngest sibling to answer; airways tightened in the arms of his 11-year-old sister, Marjorie. His father responded instead:

‘How could we write at sea, my love? The message would not have gotten here any faster than we did,’ the lord chuckled to his wife. He was correct, too, of course. His eyes seemed to surpass the gaze of his present family members in search of the one missing piece. ‘Where is Annabelle? I thought she would be home by now.’

‘She is home, with her husband,’ you explained carefully. Your father blinked slowly, coming to terms with this fact he had tried to avoid for so long. Annabelle had married last season and was very well off, to a Duke, no less, but it was still a big adjustment for the family seeing her gone and out of the house. Even with her frequent visits, it was strange to have one head less at the dinner table; one less chair occupied each evening, one less song played on the pianoforte.

‘Ah, well then,’ Father cleared his throat, ‘then we are complete.’ He looked at his wife and five children. One day, there would be even fewer of them. They will all be leaving the nest one by one. For some, marriage was long overdue, and as a man of high society, he could not wish his children a suitor or a lady soon enough, but as a father, he dreaded the day that the following proposals would take place.

Marjorie, becoming impatient and not as sentimental about her family’s reunion, tugged at Nicholas’ sleeve. ‘Come, you must tell us everything about your journey!’ She kept pulling until the eldest brother had no choice but to follow her and sit on the couch. Soon, everyone else joined on the chaises.

‘I am afraid there is very little to tell,’ Nicholas said, taking a chocolate biscuit off the tray beside the sofa. ‘It was all rather dull.’

‘Do not be ridiculous, brother,’ Fitzwilliam, the second-youngest and still hungry for adventure and the world outside of the Ton, looked at his older brother with high expectations. ‘I do not believe you and Father had been gone this long and did not experience anything worthy of a tale.’

You listened on as your siblings bickered, arguing over the value of a story, and its worth of being told and heard. Finally, after listening to it for about a quarter of an hour, you had to agree with Nicholas; it was all rather dull. No wonder neither he nor father did not bother to mention anything but the weather in their correspondence. Their days quickly grew into a pattern one is used to in travel and business. A pattern you might have understood if you cared to pay attention.

This attention only returned to the room when you heard your name being spoken. The conversation had shifted from the events that had been missed overseas to the town's happenings. Just as dull and irrelevant, some might say, the most interesting thus far was the staff changes at the house, and even these held very little consequence to you, but to this, some may disagree wholeheartedly.

‘So, the season has begun, has it not, sister?’ Nicholas asked.

‘Some weeks ago, yes.’ You did your best pretending not to feel an effect from this, occupying yourself with your needlework that was turning out far below the usual standard. ‘But do not worry; you have not missed much. In fact, I think things will finally begin to get a bit interesting with you back home.’ Nicholas had always had a taste for dramatics and had been known for having a very… loving nature. In the past years, you must have witnessed him falling in love at least a dozen times, preparing a proposal to half of these women, going through with it twice now, with one nearly making it to the alter if not for the bride getting caught in quite a compromising position with a footman.

For the next few weeks, Nicholas was known as the heartbroken gentleman, and you would have felt bad for him… if it was not for the fact that women from all over town came around to console him, day after day, of course not knowing that when his bride-to-be had been making arrangements with other men, your brother had been too busy charming ladies himself. It took a month for him to proclaim his love to another woman again.

‘I do not know what you mean,’ Nicholas deflected your comment, quickly looking over to your mother and second oldest brother, Christopher, ‘any fitting suitors I should be aware of?’ As the eldest brother, Nicholas made it his duty to ensure his sisters found good husbands. That meant status and wealth but, above anything else, a good and genteel nature. You remembered how picky he was when Annabelle had been searching for a husband, even more so than your parents. Still, it was something you appreciated about your brother. His protectiveness showed the little heart he still held for you and the rest of your family, as much as he tried to hide it away.

Your mother bit her cheek, holding in the many thoughts and opinions she must have kept for herself. So did Christopher, who shared a very knowledgeable look of many words with Nicholas, one he understood clearly but you could not decipher just yet. However, you assumed the general message had been sent and received.

‘If you had seen the choices, brother, you would understand my predicament and situation all too well, believe me.’ Pretending to seem unbothered by the encrypted messages being sent around the room, you preoccupied yourself once more with the needlework.

‘I believe it is what you believe, sister,’ Nicholas turned back to your mother, ‘do you have a list of names? I shall go through them in the morning, see if it really is as bad as we are being told.’

You had wanted to reply, most likely in a dishonourable way, but you held your tongue and fell back in your seat, letting the rest of your family plan out the rest of your life, just like they had always done.

Unbelievable, Nicholas was home for all of five minutes, and he was already making lists. And knowing him, which you would like to think you did, it was merely a formality for your sake. He would already have a dozen names at the top of his head, ready to send out invitations to men for an audience with you.

Therefore, you were not surprised when, only a few days later, at the breakfast table, Nicholas told you about all the guests Ridlngton Park would soon be welcoming.

‘There is Mr Elton, and Mr Brookes will be coming over for tea; I also heard Lord Frankworth is interested in a visit, so is Mr Campbell, and—’ he kept on giving you names, with all of them entering one ear and immediately leaving through your other. You could not care less who wanted to see you, not after spending the last month trying your hardest to escape all of their attempts at promenading, lunching, and chatting of sheer nonsense.

‘I must ask you to be ready for your first audience before 10; a dress is already prepared in your room.’ Of course, there was a dress. All you could do was smile as you bit into a forkful of egg.

‘Oh, and there is one gentleman I would particularly like you to meet,’ your father chimed in, almost as if with an afterthought that he recollected at the last minute. You looked up at him apprehensively. ‘I had made a nice acquaintance of his father on our travel. What was his name– Harrolds, no…’ ‘Harrington, father. It was Mr Harrington.’ Nicholas corrected before looking over to you as he shared more. ‘He is a tradesman, quite successful. His only son had joined us on the ship back to England.’ The emphasis on his lineage was made with an apparent inclination. There were no more heirs, meaning the son would inherit the man’s entire wealth. ‘Certainly seems like a reasonable young man, clever too. The two of you will have lots to speak of.’

Well, I certainly cannot wait to meet him,’ you forced out a smile before quickly getting on with your meal despite losing all your appetite. At that moment, your stomach felt like a hollow pit, eating away at you, ironically.

‘You know, if you gave this all a chance, you might find yourself to actually enjoy it in the end,’ your mother commented with a tight lip.

‘I am sure I shall enjoy it then, as it means that it has all, in fact, ended.’ You sighed deeply, ‘I simply do not understand why this is a must in my life? Why must I marry this instant?’

‘Do not worry, dear. You are still young; you still have plenty of time, ' your father said, missing your point entirely and making you roll your eyes. ‘But your mother is right, too, a more agreeable attitude towards this will make things much easier.’

‘For whom, exactly? Is it for me to enjoy myself, or for everyone else as you will not have to endure me any longer?’

‘Can you really blame us?’ Nicholas mumbled, receiving a kick in the shin in return. He spent the rest of the discussion rubbing the targetted spot on his leg with a pained crease between his brows. You, besides gaining the small victory of maiming your brother, found yourself yet again on the losing side of another family dispute. Like all its predecessors, this battle ended with you pushing back your chair with a harsh scrape of the panelled floor and slugging back to your room where a dress awaited.

It was beautiful; you could not deny that. Elegant and straightforward, it accented all your finest assets for interested suitors. It was comfortable: not too heavy or too textured in its pattern, it was made of soft material that slipped right on, with the fit of a well-tailored glove. Your hair was pulled up and out of your face, leaving nothing to hide behind.

‘You look lovely, miss,’ your maid said with a kind smile as she put the final pin in your hair.

‘Thank you, Claire.’ You muttered, noticing the saddened sympathy enveloping her features as she knew like no other how much you detested everything about what you were about to go through. ‘Have you got any advice? On how to endure it all?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ she shrugged, brushing something off your shoulder. ‘I suppose you could try making them uninterested in you, so they will want to leave sooner.’

‘That thought has crossed my mind,’ you admitted, ‘but I also do not want to put my entire family to shame.’

‘Of course, miss.’ Claire nodded. As she finished working on your presentation, you pondered over your possibilities. Indeed, presenting yourself as improper had been your first idea, and its appeal remained, but you were too afraid of the repercussions. If the gentlemen were to think of you as a lady without any manners, all it would do was put your upbringing up for question, something your parents did not deserve whatsoever.

You also considered spreading gossip about the men coming to introduce themselves, which would scare your mother off them immediately, ensuring they were never to return by your parents’ preference. But it felt cruel to make up such lies. You were sure that in other circumstances, these were perfectly fine men. At this particular moment, you just happened to despise them and everything they stood for.

Perhaps the most appealing option was to simply not attend the audience. To run away and never to return… at least until the afternoon, once all the men had lost all their patience. But that would only cause you more trouble.

The ideas rolled around your head for the rest of the day, even once the suitors sat opposite you in the room. It was all incredibly dull, if not just mortifyingly humiliating, with your mother sitting only across the room, occupying herself with a book, or so it seemed because she most definitely was listening to the conversations attempted on your part.

‘So,’ as most of the dialogues began, the Lord whose name you already forgot spoke, clearing his throat, ‘I hear you read.’

‘Yes, ' you said, blinking to avoid staring too blankly at the wall behind the man, ignoring the balding patch atop his head.

‘Grand,’ he smiled, somehow satisfied with your response already.

‘Do you… ride?’ you asked, hoping that at the least your mother heard your attempts at making a connection and would release you from this torment soon enough on the principle of your good sportsmanship.

‘No, God no, horses are far too beastly for my liking, unless we are speaking of the track, of course.’ The man scoffed, ‘However, I prefer more dignified activities, such as hunting.’

‘Of course, you do,’ you smiled, but the expression never reached your eyes. ‘What about chess? Do you play?’

‘I do not have the patience to commit to such silly games.’

Patience, you thought, or intelligence? And how ironic of him to speak of perseverance. You watched him take another small sandwich from the tea tray provided on a side table, which you were taught to ignore so as not to be observed as “gluttonous”. After all, no one wanted to marry a lady that ate all day.

Considering that, you grabbed a plate and a piece of cake from the top of the tray and bit into it. The soft sponge melted on your tongue. In the meantime, you were asked a question, but you could not possibly answer with a mouthful of cake, could you? Once you had finished, you considered grabbing a second portion, but you could feel the judgmental look of your mother digging into the back of your head.

You put the plate back down and your hands on your lap.

‘I’m sorry, my lord, could you repeat the question, please. I fear I may have lost myself for a moment.’ And so, it continued. Thankfully, the man excused himself not long after, thanking you and your mama for the time, just for his seat to be replaced with someone else almost immediately. This time, the gentleman was significantly younger, with thick hair atop his head and charming eyes, but the second he spoke, you knew this would not reach much further than the comfort of this room. At the least, you did not see this relationship going any further than any of the other acquaintances you had made that day.

By lunchtime, you felt your eyes burning with fatigue, possibly caused by a constant suppression of tears. How much more could you possibly take of this torture?

‘Mr Elton was quite a charmer, was he not?’ Your mother commented as she sipped her tea.

You suppressed your initial thought, rephrasing it to cause less offence, ‘He is too stubborn and self-centred. He barely let me speak a single word, too occupied by his own achievements to expect me to have any.’

‘Well, Lord Frankworth seemed to care very much for what you had to say.’

‘Only because he barely managed to string any thoughts together himself,’ you sighed.

Your mother tightened her grip on the teacup before smiling. ‘Soon enough, we will find you a perfectly fine young man, dear. You just have to remain open-minded.’ She glanced at the clock. ‘Speaking of, your next suitor should be here shortly.’

You did everything in your power not to groan at the announcement and instead nodded politely. ‘Who is it?’

‘Mr Harrington, the one your father was so keen on you meeting.’

‘Ah,’ yes, the American. The only thing that gave you some slight hope in the situation was that Mr Harrington had already spent plenty of time in the company of your father and brother Nicholas and had seemingly gained their blessing. But nothing could help you gain the energy to entertain yet another man with polite conversation. The sun had been beaming into the room since the early morning, only growing warmer and warmer, making the hairs at the small of your neck stick.

‘Will you just excuse me for a moment, mother.’ You got up.

‘Is something wrong?’ She looked suspicious but with a glint of worry in her eye.

‘I am quite fine, just require some fresh air, I think,’ which was not entirely a lie.

‘Alright then, just make haste, child.’ Mr Harrington was on his way, after all. ‘We do not want to keep the man waiting.’

‘Of course not,’ you smiled, heading towards the door. When the large panels closed behind you, you picked up your skirt and ran toward the gardens. Your footsteps echoed through the corridors, and you caught several members of the house staff glancing your way with inquisitive looks.

Ever since you could remember, the grounds around Ridlington Park had a fantastical power about them. It had been the turf on which you would spend countless childhood summer days playing games with your siblings, whether the competitive or imaginary type. But no matter what the six of you could think of, your favourite game would always remain Hide and Go Seek. The gardens were a perfect place for it, with endless nooks and crannies one could disappear into. It was nearly a giant maze, and you had mastered it from a very young age. Whilst most got lost between the shrubbery and flowers, you knew exactly where you had found yourself.

There were plenty of hiding spots you enjoyed over the years, some that to this day remain a mystery to the rest of your family, but nonetheless, it was the stables you adored the most. It was a safe haven for you on many days, to the point that you had nearly become invisible to the staff working there.

The stables were located in the far east corner of the grounds, and the walk towards it already cost more time than you had if you had ever planned on returning that quickly. Undeniably, there was a pinch of shame and guilt nipping at your heart towards the strange Mr Harrington, but that soon dissolved when you heard the neighing of Barley Sugar, a golden-brown mare you proudly called yours. A gift and result of a successful business trade made by your father years ago, the horse technically belonged to all of the Byrnwick children, as much as any of the other horses under the family’s possession, but the bond between you and that particular horse just turned out to be that much stronger.

This was visible as soon as you entered the stable. Barley Sugar went wild at your presence, happily swinging her head from side to side.

‘Oh, we can both use an escape, I see,’ you grinned, petting the horse, who leaned into your touch immediately. ‘How about I get you out of here, hmm?’

But your plans were quickly interrupted by a voice. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, ma’am.’

❀❀❀

An average sea voyage from the Americas to England should take approximately 16 days, considering the weather corresponds with the sails of the ship. During this journey, passengers would most likely endure days upon days of heavy and tall waves bashing across the ship’s sides, and that is to be expected in favourable conditions.

As Lord Byrnwick and his eldest had boarded the ship headed to London, the sky had been bright blue, and it did not change far beyond that. There was, of course, a risk for the two of them to sail across the world as they did, them being head of the family and its heir. A journey such as this one can go awry in many ways, and if it were not for the dangers of seafaring, there were the Anglo-American tensions to consider. After all, the previous year's war was still fresh in everyone’s mind, and one could not be careful enough when entertaining both sides. Luckily for the Byrnwicks, they were not of the superstitious kind, and good fortune had always seemed to be in the family’s favour up until the very moment they stepped on the boat to return home, many years beyond that.

Ever the convivial one, the most considerable success of the trip, according to Lord Byrnwick, was not the business or diplomatic aspects of their ventures but the social. The man immensely enjoyed meeting other like-minded spirits from across the pond, and there had been plenty of fine nights at gentleman’s clubs spent over fine spirits and betting games, discussing all sorts of topics and exchanging information on all subjects. Promises were made to keep in touch whilst arrangements were made for more future meetings. It was only the polite thing to do.

But aside from acquaintances and business partners, an addition to the household had also been made. Of some sort, that is, for it seemed that the two had found a new groom in America.

Now, Gentle Reader, do not conclude of the worst, as the groom we speak of is not the sort one is meant to meet at an altar but the kind who spends his days tending the horses and carriages. The young man, Mr Munson, had been doing precisely that when the Byrnwick heir stumbled upon his conveyance services in town, in dire need of transport for his regular means, which had already been occupied by his father for the day. It was an encounter by utter chance but certainly one with greater consequences.

Several days later, coincidentally, a letter from London had arrived. Five pages long, each written by a member of the family recounting their most notable memories of the week. The children spoke of the ton's gossip and anecdotes of what occurred at home. Mother, however, took it upon herself to write of more important matters regarding the household. Many topics had to be discussed, but in the middle of her letter, there was mention of the unfortunate passing of the family’s barn manager, Mr Falstipp. It was an unexpected death, leaving the entire house in shock as the man had been working for the family for longer than the children had been alive. But it also resulted in the question of what was to be done now?

It was likely only because the interaction had been so fresh in his mind that Nicholas suggested finding a replacement for Mr Falstipp here in America. This was an unusual offer, as his father commented, especially since they would not leave for home until another few days, but that was to be resolved by having the footmen take care of the horses for the time being. Besides, Nicholas was sure his siblings would be more than happy to help with the chores.

The next day, he returned to the public stables and immediately noted how much cleaner they seemed than any other in town. The horses also looked exceptionally well taken care of and content.

Mr Munson had just been feeding a colt when Nicholas eagerly announced, ‘Mr Munson, may I offer you a proposition?’

This, to no surprise, startled the other man for various reasons. ‘Sir?’

‘This must be a peculiar request, but you see, as of recently, my family has found itself in need of a new stablehand and from what I have seen you do, you, sir, would be the perfect candidate.’ Nicholas had the smile of a man losing his sanity, but his words could not be more genuine.

‘Your family—’ Munson blinked, ‘you mean in London.’

‘Yes, and I understand that this might be a problem, but trust me when I say that you will most certainly find England to your liking, Mr Munson.’

‘Please, call me Eddie.’

‘As you wish,’ Nicholas agreed.

Eddie pondered over the offer for a short moment. It would have taken him no time to decide if it was not for what he was to leave behind, but he knew that his current employer would be able to find his replacement in no time, as jobs in town were hard to come by.

But what must have been even more challenging to obtain was a ticket out of the wasteland he called home. For years, he had dreamt of an escape, never imagining it to be possible, and suddenly, here comes this stranger offering it to him on a silver platter.

It would be terrifying to move so far away, he knew that, with many risks, but the further away he could manage to go from where he was now, the better.

Eventually, after a minute of silence that left Nicholas restless and on the verge of embarrassment, Eddie smiled: ‘It would be my pleasure to work for you, sir.’ And he had meant that wholeheartedly. While it had only been a short few interactions that he had had with the man, the young Mr Byrnwick had already shown Eddie far more kindness than any of his prior employers, or any other man in his life, for a fact. Most importantly, the man knew nothing about Eddie’s past, which must have been the biggest selling point in the life-changing choice.

‘Marvelous. You will not regret this, Eddie.’ Nicholas leaned in to shake his hand, only to realise that Eddie was still carrying the giant bucket of feed. ‘Well, we shall finalise everything on the boat, shall we?’ And so they did.

A week later, Eddie found himself still in shock at his circumstances. He could not believe he was really to be leaving for England until the moment he set foot on the boat, and even once the sails had set and the American coast was nothing but a grim line on the horizon, the fact did not seem to settle in his mind just yet.

Over the next 16 days, he had encountered the Byrnwicks only a handful of times. First, to meet Lord Byrnwick who, as head of the household, wanted a final say on the matter. A bit late, thought Eddie, as the boat had long departed the harbour by then, but his ticket had already been paid for, and thus, he had little else to complain about. He had quickly made peace with the idea that he could make his new life across the ocean work no matter the circumstances. He had done it before, so what is one more homeless night under a new sky?

But the lord seemed all too happy to have found his staff replacement. Overall, the man was nothing like Eddie had expected a gentleman of English high society to be. From his previous experiences, the type often was rather conceited and arrogant, with a transparent opinion of anyone below their class. His new employer and his son, while undoubtedly lordly, had a modest nature about them. Quickly, Eddie had also gathered that the spontaneity with which Nicholas Byrnwick had called upon him for a job opportunity was not uncharacteristic of him, as the young man was rather energetic in his step and impulsive in his actions.

But no matter how unassuming the men were, they did belong to a different rank of man and, therefore, stayed on the boat to the upper decks, engaging with the rest of their kind.

The travel moved on slowly, but in the end, it was also a mere blink of an eye moment, and before he had realised it, Eddie had reached the shores of England. It was another day or two of travel to be done by horse. A carriage had been acquired for Nicholas and his father, but Eddie and the rest of the staff that travelled with the family for their adventure rode on horseback. No matter how much Eddie enjoyed the form of transportation, it was a tiring experience after several hours, but it also allowed him to meet the people he was to work with and, through that, those he would work for.

‘So, what is the rest of the family like,’ he asked Mr Trowbridge, the lord’s valet. If there was anyone who could tell Eddie something, it would be this man.

‘Well,’ Mr Trowbridge had a particularly nasal tone about his voice that especially came forward at the beginning of his sentences, ‘I do not believe there is much to tell. They are as any other family, really.’

‘My good man, you can hardly expect me to believe there is nothing worth telling about these people,’ Eddie laughed. ‘If it puts your mind at ease, I am only asking for the simplest facts—nothing to interest my fancy.’

The valet pondered over this for a moment. ‘Very well. You have, of course, met the Viscount and his eldest.’ He took a moment for Eddie to respond with a nod in agreement. He then took another moment to consider his following words. The longer he took, the more keen Eddie felt to suggest what to speak of.

‘What about Lady Byrnwick?’

‘Lady Byrnwick is most amiable and has a very caring character, but you will not find her in the stables often unless she is searching for her children.’

‘Not fond of horses, is she?’

‘Rather the outside—-’ Trowbridge cleared his hair vigorously. ‘In the sense that the sun and pollen often leave her poorly. But the children…’ he punctuated his half-sentence with a heavy sigh.

‘They are a handful?’ Eddie assumed. To this, Trowbridge searched for another description but found himself lacking the vocabulary, leading to a confirmation.

‘I have worked for this family for nearly three decades, and I will assure you that each member is as proper a member of society as the next. While boisterous, they have been taught to be independent individuals.’ The valet's tone made Eddie consider how much of their good decorum was in gratitude for the man’s own intervention and guidance.

‘At 27 years, Nicholas is the eldest, and the responsibilities of this role are one of the few aspects of his life which he takes seriously, I cannot put any doubt behind that.’ Indeed, whilst extremely impetuous, the heir’s son also understood the duties of his position and towards his family.

‘Then there is Christopher. The boy has immense athletic abilities but not much beyond that. For a young man of his age of five and twenty, one would assume he would be able to compose himself with a bit more propriety, but it is very difficult for him. He is adventurous and rarely can sit still for an extended period of time, including his mouth. It is suggested that people be careful of what they say around the man.

‘The eldest daughter, Annabelle, married just before we had departed for America, thus is now the lady of her own house.’ Something in his tone suggested he was sad to see the young woman leave home. This possibly has to do with the fact that Miss Annabelle (Now known as Duchess Annabelle Ramsbury) was the most dutiful and respectful of the six children. ‘The marriage had been long overdue as she had just turned 22 on the day of the ceremony, but a love match was found nonetheless.’ The valet guffawed with pride. It was clear to Eddie that, while considering them a nuisance, the man cared deeply for the family he served.

‘I must admit, Trowbridge,’ Eddie chuckled in this horse’s trot pattern over the uneven paths. ‘When you began speaking of the family, I had imagined the children to be… well, children.’

‘How old are you, Munson?’ Trowbridge asked, somewhat bluntly.

‘Twenty, sir.’ Perhaps closer to his next birthday than the last.

‘Ah, just the age of the second daughter then,’ he nodded in agreement. ‘She may perhaps be the most… rebellious of the kin. It is all in good spirit, as you must imagine, and I am sure the interest in such nonsense will dwindle as she matures. She is also the most fond of the family horses; thus, you will see her quite often, I expect. But as her sibling, she has mastered the care for the animals as well as the equipment.’

As he spoke of your skills, something about Trowbridge's expression communicated particular dismay to Eddie. ‘Is that bad? For a young woman to know how to carry herself around a horse?’ He, for one, certainly did not see a problem in it. On the contrary, it was an instrumental skill to develop for anyone.

‘It is not exactly lady-like, is it?’ Trowbridge spoke as if that was the only relevant argument on the matter. Eddie had learned from a very young age that some opinions were better left unsaid, and seeing him as the senior in age and position, Eddie thought it unwise to argue with the valet on his first official day of employment. He instead simply nodded in understanding. Instead, he opted to continue the civil interrogation—

‘What of the youngest two? What are they like?’

‘Fitzwilliam is a dapper fellow. He is but seventeen, but very accomplished, though I cannot say he knows how to put his acquired skills to good use. He has ambitions that cannot be denied; it is just a question of whether these ambitions can ever be met.

‘And lastly, we have Miss Marjorie. A darling girl, I assure you,’ Trowbridge stated. I can only suggest not letting her size fool you, Munson. She has managed to wrap her family around her little fingers the moment she learned to mumble a word, leaving her to cause quite the ruckus for the past eleven years.’

‘I do not see how that involves me, Sir,’ Eddie said. By this time, the sun had begun to set over the fields they passed, and soon, the company would break for their overnight travels at a nearby inn.

‘It had come to my attention over the years that Mr Falstipp–the previous groom, that is— had been quite lenient on the children and their usage of the horses. This has caused a number of incidents that I would rather not see a repetition of.’

‘Understood.’

‘I am unaware of your er– American customs,’ the valet began his lecture, ‘but you must also know that here, ladies are not to ride unaccompanied—something that has been protested in the family to no avail, but it is simply the procedure. There must always be a chaperone nearby to supervise, whether that is a senior member of the family or an entrusted member of the household.’

‘I do not expect to have gained that trust just yet,’ Eddie said earnestly.

‘But let us hope you will.’ The smile Trowbridge gave Eddie was kind at first glance, but the movement of his eyes that inspected him told an entirely different story. He knew he still had much to learn about navigating himself around the kinds of people that were the Byrnwicks, even those who worked for them. The moment he set foot on English soil, he knew it would be challenging to fit in if he ever planned to do so.

The truth is that he did not plan such a change. For you see, Dear Reader, Mr Eddie Munson was also a radical. He did not believe in adapting to society, which was visible in his entire being. One can also imagine the struggle he had to endure when given a uniform to wear. Frankly, the ensemble did not differ much from how the man dressed himself before, but the simple fact that he was told to wear this particular set of clothing upset him severely.

On the first day after his arrival at Ridlington Park, he had managed to justify himself out of dressing in the required clothing by claiming that the trousers were a smidgen too tight. Without another size available, he was told to wear the clothes on his back until the new, fitted attire arrived.

But the clothes did not even begin to reach the problem of the horses he was meant to care for.

Turned out, while he had been given all sorts of warnings against the family, what Eddie should have been preparing for was the beasts that homed the stables. The stubborn animals would not let him touch them, and any attempts were met with angry stares and stomping of the hooves.

‘Easy, there,’ Eddie spoke as softly as he could, taking small steps in any direction that would not enrage the stallion whom he was currently attempting to feed. White Liquorice, a white Arabian, was undoubtedly an animal worthy of a viscount, and from the moment he had stepped into the Ridlington Park stables, Eddie knew that the Kentucky Saddlers and Quarter Horses he grew up with were no match for these and he would quickly have to learn to get on with them if he was to stay here.

Yes, the first days were hard, but not even one week later, he had gotten used to the rhythm of operations. It helped that, working as the barn manager, he was the one in charge and mostly left alone. Mr Trowbridge had visited him to ensure he was adjusting to the new working conditions, which was kind, but besides that, Eddie rarely saw anyone but footmen requesting the carriage to be prepared for the family.

That is until one afternoon when he heard the doors open and someone walking inside. He had been around the corner of the stables, cleaning some grooming tools.

‘Oh, we can both use an escape, I see,’ he heard the intruder speak. It was soft and gentle, most likely referring to one of the horses. Immediately, Eddie was reminded of one of the conversations shared with Lord Byrnwick’s valet. He swiftly got up from his seat and immediately found the culprit.

He watched you pet one of the horses—Barley Sugar, was it—-petting her in a way he had not yet managed to do confidently. ‘How about I get you out of here, hmm?’ These words triggered him to jump into action.

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, ma’am.’ He stepped forward, but his words startled you, causing you to turn around. As you did so, your foot got caught in an old set of bridles Eddie had still planned on detangling and putting away. The surprise coming with the unexpected presence of someone else, combined with the awkward position of your foot, led you to fall over with a shriek.

Eddie cursed under his breath as he watched you huff on the ground. ‘Let me help you,’ he extended his hand to you, ‘and my apologies, it was not my intent to—’

‘Who are you?’ you said in a tone that could only be deemed skittish, if not directly fearful, but not enough to deny his offer to help you stand. Your reaction was validated as you had never met the man standing before you. You eyed him up and down, and the more details you noticed, the more you were sure that you had just stumbled upon a robbery, nay, a kidnapping.

The man's presentation spoke for itself, truly. His long hair was dark and unkept, well over his shoulders. His clothes were nothing like the workers around your house were meant to dress like, making him stick out like a very sore thumb. The trousers were old and worn, and the shirt was loose over his upper body, revealing—oh god, was that a tattoo?

It was clear this is how you were to die.

‘Are you here to steal my horses?’ you blurted out before you could think.

‘What?’ He blinked. ‘No, please, listen—’ but you did no such thing. Instead, you did the only thing a lady in distress could do.

You screamed bloody murder.

‘Help! Anyone! Help—’ you would have kept on going, shouting over his attempt at reason until he finally shut you up by placing his hand over your mouth, his other hand sturdily over your upper arm. The two of you stood there for a moment, chests both heaving in all forms of panic, listening for footsteps or any other presence, but the only sound was the soft breathing of the animals around you.

‘I will let go now, miss,’ Eddie said slowly. Both your eyes were wide from the uncultivated situation that had just occurred. ‘And I will explain everything to you, just, please—and I beg you— do not scream.’ You nodded your head beneath his palm in agreement. Eddie counted to three as he stepped back and finally let go of you. Despite him never blocking your airways, you inhaled deeply.

‘There is absolutely no reason to panic, ma’am.’ His accent was distant, one you had never had the pleasure of hearing before. His eyes, large and dark, locked you in, almost making you lose count of the lingering feeling of his hands on your body. He had given you a moment before he continued speaking, ensuring that you would not resume your screaming or make a run for it.

‘What is your reason of being here?’ You inquired.

‘I work here. Have been, for the past week. I think it was your brother, in fact, that gave me the position. We met on his travels.’

Now, come to think of it, you remembered your family's conversation on the day your father and brother returned. There had been talk of new staff—a young man they had brought along with them from America as an official replacement for the late Mr Falstipp. But that did not explain his attire.

‘You could be fired for breaking the dress code alone, you know. Not to mention for the, uhm, actions you had just performed.’ You commented.

‘Well, you can always report me, miss.’ Eddie, against all his better judgement, smiled.

‘Maybe I should.’ Your heart was still pounding, and you felt so disoriented that even a simple smile made your head spin. ‘What is your name?’

‘Eddie.’

‘Well, Mr Eddie—’ you began, just to be quickly interrupted.

‘No, just Eddie.’ Eddie shook his head.

‘What do you mean? Do you have no family name?’ You had heard of men bringing in street urchins to work for them, but surely, this man was too old for such charity. And you could not imagine your brother to perform such acts of kindness anyway.

‘I do.’ His smile only widened in amusement at the conversation. ‘Eddie Munson.’

‘My, is it usual in America to introduce oneself like that?’ Never had you heard of a man introducing himself by only his first name, let alone a byname.

‘It is usual to me,’ he quipped, ‘And it is more common than not introducing yourself at all.’ The way in which he looked up at you from under his lashes felt accusatory, but you could not find it within you to be upset at the critique, so you gave him your name instead.

‘Pleasure to meet you, Miss Byrnwick.’ He gave you a small, polite bow that reminded you more of how children play Lord and Lady rather than a gentlemanly act. Next thing you knew, a smile was pulling at the corner of your lips, and a small giggle was ready to escape.

For some reason, you hesitated to say your following words: ‘It is a pleasure, Mr Munson.’

‘Please, call me Eddie.’ While always respecting the titles of others, Eddie never saw himself as one to follow such formalities.

‘That is most improper.’ You held back the urge to scoff.

‘But I insist.’ There was something in the corner of his eye that you managed to catch a glimpse of—this spark that no sunlight or fire could match. It was pure mischief, a spirit of chaos. But still, to call a man you barely knew by his first name was simply not right. Your family may jest as they please about your rebelling attitude to primitive customs, but you had to admit that some things ought to be done in a proper manner. And this was certainly not it.

However, Mr Munson saw it in another light but did not find enough of an interest in the subject enough to argue it further. Rather, he cleared his throat briefly and observed you for a moment.

How silly you must look in your fancy dress! Your hair was done up to match, and your shoes were most likely covered in mud. There was also no doubt that he had overheard you talking to your horse about running away. You had good faith that he could connect the pieces to form the complete picture.

A bird flew past a window, making you glance past Eddie’s shoulder in haste.

‘I hope I am not keeping you from any other plans, miss?’ He finally asked. Could you be so bold as to admit that he was saving you from other commitments by conversing with you?

‘No, of course, not Mr Munson,’ you persisted. ‘I am simply cautious.’ Come to think of it, your screams must have been heard all around the grounds. If those who heard, in turn, had an ounce of common sense amongst them, they would have called for someone in the house. If that was the case, your mother would be here momentarily, and then it was back to the house for you. All you could do now was hide.

‘May I ask what are you being cautious of?’ Eddie followed you with his eyes as you walked through the stables, looking for a hiding spot.

‘If you must know, I am currently on the run,’ you stated while looking over a haystack in the far corner.

‘Ah, so whilst you had accused me of being a criminal, it was you who had been committing the crimes then? Should I now scream for help?’

‘I’d rather you didn’t, ' you said, attempting to climb the hay to get past it. ‘I have already brought much too much attention to myself.’ Your foot slipped, making you tumble back down to the ground. The accident made you stop for a moment before attempting to climb again, looking over your shoulder at the man. ‘Are you not going to even try and stop me?’

‘Oh,’ it was as if he had awakened from a deep thought or had just realised that what you suggested was exactly what he ought to do. ‘Well, would you listen if I told you not to climb up there?’

You pondered his question for a short moment. ‘No, I highly doubt it.’ Thus, you resumed your climbing. As you did, you heard the shuffling of his feet behind you. The next time you slipped up, this time from a far higher distance, he had been in precisely the right place to catch you in his arms.

‘I cannot assure you I will be able to catch you once more, so it is in good conscience that I suggest you stop, ma’am,’ he said as you got back to your feet.

‘You are right,’ you admitted. Then you realised just how close the two of you stood and quickly occupied yourself by looking for another hiding place. That is when you noticed it. You had spent years in this stable and knew every inch of the space, yet… ‘Have you moved things around?’ You looked back at Eddie.

‘Only a little. I’m afraid my predecessor did not have a flair for organisation,’ he explained.

‘That may be so, but I would prefer you would put things back as they were.’

‘Excuse me?’ Eddie could not help but laugh at the demand.

‘Your new floor plan has completely disoriented me, ' you admitted. ‘It is unbecoming.’

‘My apologies. I will be sure to put things back as they were, then.’ His laugh still echoed his words.

You had not expected him to actually agree to this request. ‘You will?’ But quickly, you regained your composure and tried to hide the surprise in your voice. ‘Very well, thank you. Then, since you have discarded all of my possible hiding locations, what do you suggest I should do?’

‘I suggest you run.’ But it was not Eddie who had answered you.

‘Mother, ' you gasped. What was it, in God’s good name, with everyone sneaking up on you today? Lady Byrnwick stood at the threshold of the stables with her arms crossed. Her lips tightened into a thin line as she took a step inside. You prepared yourself for a disciplinary outburst, but instead, your mother focused on the man standing next to you.

‘You must be Mr Munson.’ The kindness in her voice was laughable. The overcompensation of her kindness threw both you and Eddie off.

‘Yes, Ma’am.’ You noticed that he bowed his head in a much more orderly fashion than he had done to you.

‘I hope my daughter has not been too much of a nuisance.’

‘Not at all.’ Eddie politely replied.

‘Good, good. Well, I can already see that my son did a good job in finding you,’ she stated as she looked around the retouched interior. ‘And I hope that you will grow to enjoy England.’

‘I’ve had nothing to complain of yet.’ Eddie proudly said with that smile of his, and for a moment, you thought to have caught his eyes on you for just a second. Your mother nodded along with his words in satisfaction, but this cheeriness dissipated as soon as she directed herself to you.

‘Has your headache cleared, dear?’ Her eyes were spitting fire.

‘Yes, mother.’

‘Then we will be on our way.’ She stepped aside, giving you room to walk outside. ‘Goodbye, Mr Munson.’ Eddie had become the unintentional victim of the venom that perferred your mother's words.

He was polite enough to look away as you made your shameful walk through the aisle between the horses’ stalls, but you couldn’t help but look behind you one final time as you left and catch his favourable grin. What a peculiar man he was, indeed—one whose presence you immediately began to miss.

Perhaps that was because of the company you were in at the time.

‘Have you gone completely mad?’ Your mother scowled. ‘Mr Harrington has been waiting for well over half an hour.’

‘He is still here?’ You stopped in your tracks. This day could not have gone any worse. It seemed like everything you had been doing was working in your favour.

‘Yes, so you better come up with a clever excuse for your tardiness as I will not be embarrassed any longer. I swear, have you no shame?’

‘I am truly sorry mother, I had lost track of the time.’

‘Doing what exactly? What were you doing in the stables, exactly? Considering you had told me you were going out for some fresh air.’ Yes, the air around the horses was not exactly to be called “fresh.”

Unfortunately, you had no satisfying answer to any of your mother’s questions. Come to it, you yourself were unsure what exactly had brought you there in the first place, not to mention what made you stay. It must have been a sense of child-like naivete to think you could hide from your problems the way you attempted.

Problems that were coming closer as Mr Harrington walked towards you through the aisle of hyacinths that grew all around you in various colours.

‘What is he doing here?’ you mumbled towards your mother.

‘Considering the lovely weather, I had offered for us to sit out in the gardens.’ Your mother spoke out loud. That is when you noticed the set table and chairs under a large parasol on the patio.

‘I hope you do not mind. I took the initiative of taking a stroll in your absence.’ Mr Harrington spoke in a cadence that would have been new to you if not for the fact that you had spent the last hour in the presence of a very similar tone.

‘Of course, not,’ your mother had regained her ability to smile. ‘May I introduce my daughter.’ And so she did.

‘I am sorry to have kept you waiting, sir. I completely lost track of time.’ You apologised and were ready to offer your hand to Mr Harrington when you noticed how filthy your gloves had become. In a panic, you pushed both your hands behind your back, trying to distract the man with a wide grin.

‘The important thing is that we are all here now,’ he manoeuvred, which you could not help but agree with, then led you to the patio.

The next hour went by faster than you had ever imagined it would. Mr Steve Harrington turned out to be not only a great conversationalist but a rather fascinating one at that. It was only a fault of your own that you were distracted for a larger part of the conversation. There was simply something about the man’s brown eyes that constantly reminded you of somewhere else. He was very charming and, abiding by your brother’s promises, had a great, though perhaps somewhat awkward, wit. It seemed that his confidence, once clearly overt, had been lowered, causing him to stumble over his words at times and laugh at his own mistakes in a deprecating manner, but never enough to make it a bother in your eyes. Truly, it was all rather endearing.

But you could not, for the life of you, figure out what exactly caused these fumblings in his character, as nothing seemed to be particularly wrong with the man. Though you did not see him as an academic or scholar of any sort, from the way he spoke, you could tell he was one of the more clever men you had the fortune of meeting. And his looks were certainly no topic of discussion either. He was tall and lean, with a wonderful smile and soft brown hair that apparently was more common than imagined, as were those dark eyes and the way he held you in his arms—

You took a sip of the cold water as Mr Harrington expressed his gratitude to your mother for the audience and made sure the message would be conveyed to Lord Byrnwick, too. You nodded and smiled along. Even when he bid you farewell and bowed his head, your mind was elsewhere. As if expecting something to emerge from behind the hyacinths, you could not help but glance in the Eastern direction of the gardens.

‘See, it was not all that bad, was it?’ your mother immediately said, pulling you back to the patio. By then, Mr Harrington had excused himself and was crossing the patio to the exit from the grounds but had turned briefly for a final goodbye, which you met with a polite wave.

‘No, I suppose you are right, mother.’ You had persevered against all odds. As you watched the gentleman leave, you felt quite content with the meeting—happy, some would even say. The only problem was that you could not make quite clear what, or rather, who brought on this particular mood.

To be continued...

Thank you so much for reading!! I really do hope you enjoyed this chapter. Remember the best way to support writers is to reblog and share. I love to hear what people think of my stories so feel free to leave a comment or an ask or message.

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cinnbar-bun · 3 months

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Straw Hats- Reversed AU HCs

AU: In which YOU are the character of a very famous franchise, and they are regular people who are fans of your series.

Note: GN!Reader, crack, very unserious

Luffy

Thinks you’re neat! Super cool!

People think he doesn’t really “get” you and just likes you for your awesome powers and/or cool appearance, but he drops like an innocent yet profound tidbit about you that shows he really is thinking of you.

Honestly probably only has a bootleg figure of you courtesy of Ace. It’s goofy as hell but he adores it.

Maybe has one of those printed graphic tees.

Ace and Sabo joke about his love for you but then Luffy throws his slippers at them.

If he sees anything with you on it, he’s just gushing over it.

Loves finding funny comics with you online.

Zoro

Guy who likes you for your powers.

The same guy who is also a weeb in front of the mirror and tries to replicate your awesome moves.

Help his roommates caught him-

I think he’d get those compression shirts/shorts with you or a symbol of yours for when he works out.

Also the guy who’s working out to your voice like those ASMR videos so he can pretend you’re praising him and congratulating him.

Gets into fights with Sanji about who’s the bigger fan.

I don’t see Zoro as the type to “collect” things, but he’d probably have a keychain of you around his belt or something as a good luck charm.

Might even have an action and poseable figure of you like a Figma.

Nami

Likes you lots, but also recognizes your merch potential.

Works alongside Usopp to produce fan merch or zines for you to make money.

Has a unique piece of jewelry with your symbol/iconography to wear.

She’s not wearing “obvious” for merch, because she just isn’t about that.

Probably has a few very expensive figures of yours that are special edition or anniversary editions that she managed to get at a steep discount.

Reads a bit of fanfic but tends to mostly peruse fanart of you.

Tends to have multiple ships for you- she doesn’t really favor one over the other she just thinks they’re interesting.

Likes to do cosplays of your fits, though. She’s gotten very popular for her lovely cosplays. She tends to handmake most of her cosplays, but Usopp and Franky add to the amazing accessories.

Plays the gacha game for your series, and her amazing luck means she gets practically all your units easily.

Usopp

The artist of the group who has seen and had to do heinous things for a commission.

Unlike the others, he IS making a self insert and HE IS DOING ART AND COMICS WITH YOU AND HIM AS THE MAIN COUPLE!

Has made a name for himself of making doujins and art for you. His store has seen lots of purchases for his doujins.

Nami basically is his account manager and has made him raise commission prices many times in order to pay their rent and so he can realize how valued his work is.

He mostly just posts his work but does like answering questions from fans and posting about how awesome you looked in the new episode.

Always making art and stories from you.

Has done fanfiction for you but it’s mostly with his OC/SI and his artwork tends to be more well-known.

Always does special drawings for your birthday and various holidays.

Plays the gacha and has bad luck so he has to whale for your unit. He insists he prefers just regular console or PC gaming instead of gacha.

Sanji

Number one fan, he WILL get into arguments about you and inject you into everything.

All your figures, all your merch, all of it in one specific room dedicated to you. Sanji even has a lifesize figure of you in a cool/cute pose he religiously cleans (and prays to ngl) every day because AINT NO WAY HIS LOVE IS GOING TO GET A SPECK OF DUST ON THEM!!

His work as a chef makes him busy, but he likes to wear small things of you like a brooch or something on his uniform to cheer him up through the day.

Makes videos cooking things you cooked or dishes you liked within the series.

He sometimes shows off his collection and Zoro calls him a loser and they get into fights in the comments.

Commissions art of you (probably Usopp) to hang up in the (Y/n) room.

I feel like he would do a persona/self-insert but also I feel like he’d be like no!!!! I cannot sully my beloved like that!!! So he focuses on just you.

Blocks people who are fans of you and does not like shipping anyone with you, hell no his mellorine is HIS!!!

Has done fanfic, mostly self-insert, and that’s pretty much all he reads. No ships.

Robin

“Oh, (Y/n)? Yes, they are an interesting character. I like them.”

[1 Million word count fic series, tagged: slow burn, character exploration, heavy angst, found family, Book 4 of 7]

“I just think they’re neat.”

Probably the mother fic writer for you and/or one of your ships.

Doesn’t socialize much online, just tends to post and scroll through the fics for you and answers comments under her fic.

Likes to support her fellow creators so she does look into the art and projects other fans have made.

Does try to create her own aesthetics for her blog and fics, but sometimes she just commissions Usopp to make her things for her fics to fit her vision.

Is really into unique and often abstract or “dark” art of you.

Yes you’re her favorite character, yes she will still make you suffer in her fics and art for the ~development~.

It’s a running gag with her peers where they ask her how she will torture them next.

She finds the Nendoroids of you are quite cute, so she bought one to go on her desk.

Franky

Franky likes making garage set figures of you.

He’s also a bit of a dork, so he will often make you pose with a super sentai outfit or large gundam robots (since they’re also a part of his crafting hobby).

Makes videos showing off the new figures he made of you.

He loves you cuz you’re his hero, you just amaze him!

Printed a photo of the art your creator did where you guys were all dressed like super heroes or something- suuuuppper up his alley and he loved seeing it.

He likes collecting the manga/comics for your series and keeps them on his personal shelf.

Franky also helps Nami/others with specific cosplay accessories. Franky is known for his craftsmanship, so he’s made plenty of cosplay gear for others that are above and beyond.

Him and Usopp have collabed to create the original figures of you that Franky adores.

Does those videos where he takes cheaper/smaller figures of you and adds to the base and design to make it more “epic”.

What the hell is “fanfiction”?

Brook

Goes by the username “Soul King” and uploads his covers of your franchise’s music.

He really loves you though so he’s often rocking your shirts while he’s recording the music.

He does a lot of different genres for your theme covers- jazz, heavy metal, lofi, piano, music box- he’s done em all.

Whenever he’s not recording covers of his music and does streams, he very proudly shows his figure of you and a poster he has hanging up on his wall.

Also plays the gacha game, has pretty good luck but never with your units.

“Wow! 5 Sugo-rares! Who are they- GOD DAMN IT IT’S JUST THE OTHERS!!! RATE UP IS A LIE!!!”

Brook is a menace though and I’m gonna keep that under wraps for various reasons.

Maybe in the future I might explain further.

Jinbei

Jinbei is classy, unlike many of the others here (we will not name names).

He’s more likely to “make” his own merchandise for you.

Handmade doll with a lovingly sewn kimono, for example.

Fancy tea set that is painted with your symbols but it’s so subtle and chic that some of his viewers don’t even realize it’s from some random franchise he likes.

He prides himself on his traditional and handmade crafts and you’re just an avenue to experiment with them.

He likes to design the kimonos and outfits with you in mind and the season. He shows the process of creating it in these calm and quiet BTS videos.

Really they are beautiful and the amount of love and skillmanship put into the work he does is fantastic, it’s awe inspiring.

Does not know what a fanfic, a gacha, or what a “fan edit” is. He’s an old man he’s got things to do, man.

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highvern · 6 months

Text

Teach Me

or the first time we hooked up it was so disappointing I thought about faking my own death so you’d leave me alone

Pairing: Lee Dokyeom (Seokmin) x fem!reader

Genre: smut, humor, college au

Warnings: kind of virgin shaming, first time, OC knows she’s wrong but no one’s perfect, descriptions of bad sex, mentions of death (in a joking way), frat!svt, chemistry

Length: ~2.3k

Note: there used to be a time i had to memorize the entire greek alphabet bc i was a sorority girl so im drawing on my roots for inspo lol

Also virginity is a construct! don’t let people make you feel bad about it!

read more here

Friday Night Approx. 11:37PM, undisclosed bed room, SBT fraternity

Dokyeom is great. He’s funny, always does his share of your lab assignments, and when you go to parties at his frat he gives you the good shit out of the fridge instead of whatever concoction his brothers whipped up in the communal cooler for everyone else to drink. The fact that he’s easy on the eyes doesn’t hurt either.

That’s why the last ten minutes have surmounted into what has to be the most disappointing hookup of your life.

His fumbling hands and clumsy movements would be endearing if he wasn’t drooling on your neck in a way that is less than attractive. When his hand slides down the front of your jeans he’s at least receptive to the gentle corrections and cooed suggestions you provide. Is it mindblowing? No. Will he get you off? Probably not. But he’s enthusiastic so you’ll let it go for now.

“Can I, like,” he starts, leaning back to sit up right above you, face bright red, “take your pants off?”

“Ugh, yeah. Sure.”

It’s a weird escalation given you still have your shirt on but to each their own.

The heat of his muscular chest against the back of your thighs is pleasant enough but doesn’t make up for the way he dives straight in, immediately sucking and licking vigorously. Jolting nerves force you to curl in onto yourself at the discomfort, thankfully unlatching his lips from your abused clit. Twisting a fist in his hair, you pull him up and away from your crotch, distracting him with hot kisses and nips across his throat. He doesn’t seem to mind the change, teeth clenching as your opposite hand tickles down his front to his waistband. Stuffing your hand into his boxer, Dokyeom releases a noise somewhere between a whine and groan. Hot and heavy in your palm, his tip leaks obscenely when you give him a tug.

“Shiiiiit,” he whimpers against your mouth.

Well, at least one of you is having a good time.

In a flurry of motion, his pants are down just enough to get his cock out, allowing him to roll a condom on before pushing inside you slowly. The stretch isn’t painful but it’s less than comfortable as he starts to rock his hips. With an awkward rhythm he’s providing you little friction and thus no pleasure. You try tilting your hips to change the angle. It helps some, letting his pelvis grind gently against your clit but still no dice. Your fatal mistake is wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him deeper.

When you clench around him as he hits deeper, Dokyeom’s hips buck a little too enthusiastically, head falling back and belting long low groan. All you can do is gape as he finishes, leaving you in the dust.

Sunday Afternoon Approx 2:40 PM, coffee shop near campus

“He did what?”

“Don’t make me repeat it.” You grimace.

“Like, no warm up at all? Just straight P in V?”

“I mean he kissed me but other than that, not really, no.”

The look on Seungkwan’s face is that of a child realizing Santa isn’t real.

“And you’re sure it was Dokyeom? Like the Lee Dokyeom, your lab partner, my fraternity brother Lee Dokyeom?”

“I didn’t ask for his ID but yeah I’m pretty sure it was him.”

“What did he say after?”

The look you give tells him exactly what Dokyeom asked you after he finished.

“No!” Seungkwan gasps.

“Yes.”

You’ve abandoned your diluted iced coffee, pushing it to the middle of the table. There’s a gentle thud as your forehead meets the cool vinyl surface.

“What are you gonna do about your lab Tuesday?”

“Pray I get hit by a bus.” You grumble, not moving an inch.

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I! It’s that or drop the class.”

“It’s too late for you to drop.”

“Death it is.”

You can feel the eye roll Seungkwan responds with.

“Have you two talked at all since then?”

“He has, I haven’t.”

“What does that mean?”

“He’s texted but I haven’t responded.”

“Let me see!”

Prying your head away from the table, your phone is unlocked and snatched away by your best friend. He reads the messages with mild horror.

[SATURDAY 1:07 AM]

Lee Sock-mint: hope you got home okay :)

[SATURDAY 1:08 AM]

Lee Sock-mint: I had a lot of fun btw

[SATURDAY 2:07 PM]

Lee Sock-mint: you left your jacket at the party but i snagged it, i can give it back tuesday

[TODAY 9:14 AM]

Lee Sock-mint: wanna meet at the library tonight to go over this weeks lab?

“Oh sweetie…”

“I know!”

“Well, you fucked in this bed so now you have to lie in it.”

“You always know just what to say.”

“It’s a gift.” He shrugs.

“And it was Jihoon’s bed actually.”

“I take it back. You probably will die before Tuesday.”

You end up texting Dokyeom but only to tell him you’re already busy and you’ll see him on Tuesday. You feel bad for blowing him off but the disappointment from your tumble in the sheets still echoes in your head.

Tuesday Afternoon Approx 3:00 PM, Chem 326 Laboratory

When Tuesday comes, Dokyeom is suspiciously absent from class and you have to work on the lab with Soonyoung instead.

“Heard you’re ghosting my bro.”

It’s a statement, not a question and the look on Soonyoung’s usually cheerful face scares you a bit.

“Where’d you hear that?”

“You know, just hearing things.”

“I heard you cried Friday night about how much you love Eunha but she won’t give you the time of day.” You shrug your shoulders. “So maybe we’re both just hearing things.”

“Well I heard you popped his cherry and ditched him right after!”

“I did what?” You whisper yell, grabbing Soonyoung’s arm as your eyes go impossibly wide.

A few of the groups close to your table have turned around in curiosity but Soonyoung’s prone to random bouts of shouting so they’re interest fades quickly.

He has the decency to look ashamed of his outburst. You two are actually friends when it boils down to it but guy code has him siding with his best friend on this one.

“He said you basically ran out the door.”

“You know that’s not the part I’m questioning.”

“Wait, you didn’t know?” Soonyoung is shocked.

“No!” You shoot. “Do you think I’d deflower him at a gross frat party if I did?”

“Idiot.” He curses. “Sorry, not you. Well also you, but him mostly.”

“Why the fuck wouldn’t he tell me that?”

“Probably because he’s a junior and has barely even seen a girl naked?” He looks at you like you have two heads. “It’s a pride thing.”

“Yeah well his pride made him cum in two seconds.”

“Probably the two best seconds of his life.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“Can you just, I don’t know, like, talk to him? He thinks you hate him.”

“I don’t hate him.”

“Tell him that, not me.”

After class is dismissed, you trudge across campus to your dorm replaying the conversation over and over. You’re both mortified and pissed. How could you not tell you?

You open your messages to send him a long overdue text.

[TODAY 4:27 PM]

You: sorry I’ve been MIA :( wanna get dinner?

It’s cowardly but you’ve done worse.

[TODAY 4:48 PM]

Lee Sock-mint: sorry, busy

Like hell he is. Dokyeom brags every Tuesday that your lab is the only thing on his schedule, unlike your four morning lectures in addition to your shared class that packs your day.

[TODAY 4:49 PM]

You: we really need to talk

When your message goes unopened and unanswered for hours, you call in reinforcements.

“Are you home?”

“Well hello to you too.” Soonyoung greets sarcastically.

“Hi.” You deadpan rubbing your eyes, patience wearing thin. “Are you home?”

“Yes, what do you want?”

“Is he home?”

Silence.

“Come on Hosh, is he home?”

“Yeah but he hasn’t been out of his room all day.”

“I’m coming over.”

“What?”

“I need to talk to him!”

More silence.

“Fine but whatever the hell is going on, leave me out of it.”

“You’re the best.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

Tuesday Night Approx. 9:34PM, Soonyoung and Seokmin’s shared apartment

To say Dokyeom is shocked to find you gently knocking at his bedroom door on a Tuesday night, expression bashful and eyes filled to the brim with apologies, is an understatement. He knew Friday night didn’t give you the best impression but what could he do when the pretty girl from his chem lab he’s had a fat crush on all year let’s him fuck her after another one of his frat’s parties?

The entire night you flirted with him, pressing your ass into his crotch as the shitty trap music Chan insisted on playing buzzed on; wrapping your arms around his neck, letting your fingers comb through the short strands of hair at the back of his head. Then all of a sudden your kissing and next thing he knows you’re pulling him up the stairs and into the first empty bedroom you can find. It was a whirlwind.

“Hi,” you whisper, a little afraid he’s gonna slam the door in your face.

“Hi,” he whispers back, still in disbelief that you’re in front of him.

“Can we talk? Please?”

He doesn’t answer but steps aside to open his door wide enough for you to walk past him. Taking a seat on the corner of his bed like you usually do when you study at his apartment, your eyes look everywhere except him.

“I, ugh,” clearing your throat, you start again. “I’m sorry about Friday.”

Dokyeom doesn’t know what to say so he remains silent, firmly planted by his door.

“Soonyoung told me about how you hadn’t, and I just,” You’re rambling from the guilt coursing through your veins. “I’m really really sorry.”

When your words register, Dokyeom finds himself simmering somewhere between anger and annoyance.

“You feel bad because I was a virgin?” He scoffs. “I don’t need you to pity me.””

“I don’t!” You insist. “I just, if i knew it was your first time I wouldn’t hav–”

“Wouldn’t have what?” He ventures.

“Done it in some gross frat house.” You mutter.

“So you regret it?”

You think hard about your next words. Dokyeom is both your friend and your lab partner for the next two months. The latter is far less important to you now than it was this morning before Soonyoung spilled the beans.

“No.” Your voice is firm, “Okay, well maybe the fact that Jihoon is gonna kill us for doing it in his bed but no, I don’t regret it.”

“But you didn’t like it?”

“I liked…some of it.” You stutter.

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Which parts?”

“Huh?”

“Which parts did you like?” Dokyeom rolls his eyes.

“Um, well, you’re a good kisser!” You assure.

“Is that all?”

“When you went down on me it was okay.” You wince.

“So basically everything besides kissing was bad.”

“No!” You lie but he’s pinned you in place with a glare. “You, uh, you have a lot of potential!”

It’s Dokyeom’s turn to wince. He shuffles across the room to sit next to you on the bed, leaving a sizable distance between your bodies.

“When Soonyoung told you I was a virgin, did he tell you I had never done any of that before?”

Now that’s shocking. Shocking because you’ve seen girls flirting with him before. At parties, in class, at the library coffee shop; hell even a few dudes approached him. Dokyeom is liked by pretty much everyone on campus, including your own friends who have tried to get you to introduce them.

“No, he didn’t really go into specifics.”

“Oh.”

The atmosphere is already awkward so what’s one more question?

“So how much have you done?”

“Well, after Friday…” Dokyeom trails off.

“Before Friday.” You clarify.

“Well I’ve made out obviously. And, I mean, a girl went down on me freshman year.”

“That’s it?”

“Did you come here to make fun of me?” Defensiveness rolls off him in waves.

“No, it’s just…surprising is all.”

When you look over at him you can see the question on the tip of his tongue.

“I’m just shocked you don’t have girls lining up because you’re like hot and nice and yeah.” You trail off, blush burning the tips of your ears.

“You think I’m hot?”

“Well I didn’t let you in my pants because I thought you were ugly!”

You both let out snorts of laughter.

“I’m sorry.” he apologizes.

“Why are you sorry?”

“I was just really excited to finally have a shot with you and I ended up looking like a complete loser.”

“Hey! That’s not fair,” you smirk. “I thought you were a loser before we hooked up.”

Dokyeom grabs for the pillow behind him, gently tossing it at you as a bark of laughter leaves his mouth.

“How ‘bout we just agree to move on?”

He does his best to suppress a crestfallen frown from bloom on his lips. Dokyeom tries to look at the positives of ignoring the fact that he’s seen you half naked, felt your mouth on his, how you feel spread on his fingers, spread on his cock; even if just for a short moment. As much as it would suck to never experience those things again, at least you’ll still be his friend. It also means you’ll forget that he’s a two pump chump. Bright side.

“Yeah.” He agrees, resolving himself. “Sounds good.”

After a beat of silence, you open your mouth again.

“You know, you’re the first virgin I’ve ever been with.”

“I thought we just agreed to forget about it?”

“No, we agreed to move on from being weird about it.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Well, since I took your virginity, I feel I have a… responsibility.”

“Responsibility?”

The sly smile twisting the corner of your mouth has Dokyeom choking on his own tongue. As you turn to face him fully, his breath catches in his throat.

“Yeah, what kind of friend would I be if I just let you be bad at sex and did nothing about it?”

Dokyeom can feel his pants tighten at your implication.

“Ugh, not a good one?”

“Exactly! I would be a bad friend if I didn't help you and I don’t want to be a bad friend.”

As you speak, you shift until you’re kneeling between his spread legs, maintain eye contact the entire time.

“Yeah that would be… bad.” His brain is working at half capacity due to your hands pushing up his thighs towards his zipper.

“So,” you blink slowly, smile shy with a subtle tilt of your head, “you’ll let me help you?”

Dokyeom feels himself nodding in agreement.

“Then let’s get started.”

#svthub #lee seokmin #lee seokmin x reader #svt x reader #seventeen fanfic #svt #dokyeom #seokmin x reader #seokmin smut #🫡 highvern #dokyeom x reader #dokyeom smut

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psiirockin · 2 months

Note

so sorry if you arent giving art tips; but how did you learn to draw poc hair?? i need advice and yours is so cool

Thank you! And I would really mainly recommend studying how other (POC) artists stylize hair, and simultaneously referring to photos of people of color for inspiration + understanding texture.

I think, it's all about the context of your style really. I learned a very looong time ago when I was a kid on how to draw curly hair specifically because I had big ol' curls myself + I was subconsciously studying hair styles of the like in cartoons or media I enjoyed!

The thing is, just don't overthink the shapes. At least for cartoony styles like anime, or one like mine where the texture mainly comes from the coloring + rendering, the structure can be super simple to follow if you don't overthink it.

^ Taking this newer WIP of my OC's really quick for reference! If you look closely, the shapes are mostly just little bumpy cloud-like chunky strokes! And while this isn't rendered hair yet, you can still read it as the texture it's intended as.

......................... ...

^ An older doodle of my other OCs to show other hairstyles.. While I draw braids + locs a smidge differently now, this was still composed of wobbly lines that I defined a bit with other squiggles! Not so hard I promise! And obviously, I can always do better + I will continue to study/improve.

Some artists I have been particularly inspired by when drawing textured & POC's hairstyles are here if you wanna check them out: southpauz / kidciitrix / p0nyplanet / xavier illustrates / likelihoodart / toorurii .. ETC.! (I love how they draw hair in general LOL it's all so good..) Hopefully this helps a bit!

#art #asks #asks open

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powderblueblood · 4 months

Text

HELLFIRE & ICE — eddie munson x f!oc! as enemies to star-crossed lovers

CHAPTER EIGHT — SEWN UP

PREVIOUS | MASTERLIST | NEXT

summary: you'd need a hacksaw to cut the tension between you and eddie, but that's not your weapon of choice this time around. a newspaper pitch, a patchwork girl and a tasteless prank all work together to make things ever more awkward between you and the boy you keep senselessly calling your friend. content warnings: MINORS DNI, THIS IS NOT SAFE FOR YOUR PURITAN EYES - reader is an ex-bitch on a journey of self-discovery through being an even more specific kind of bitch, angst in the form of an elizabeth munson mention, miscommunication, lacy engaging non-platonically with someone other than eddie, mention of lacy's surname and dad's name, REEFER RICK CAMEO, billy hargrove slander as per, violence, a humiliating prank, smut in the form of public hand stuff (f!receiving), me feeling insane about this chapter word count: 14.3k

Dear Mom,

She hasn’t got warm hands. She hasn’t got the kind of smile that draws people to her. She hasn’t got a kind word for everyone, no matter where they come from. She hasn’t got a lot of patience. She hasn’t got a fixed sense of herself–well, she does kinda. But, not totally. Not yet.

She’s not like you.

Other cheerleaders wore ponytails and they’d bounce. But when she wore a ponytail, it swung like a sword. She used to be cruel and exacting, but now she’s just exacting. She’s honest and observant to a degree that’s, like, almost psycho. She’s a cold front, but she laughs like a lightning strike. I feel like thunder, powerless to do anything but roll after her. Can’t help myself.

She knows what she wants, she thinks. Other days she doesn’t. I keep trying to tell her that’s okay, in ways where I don’t actually have to use the words. My words wouldn’t be as good as her words. Her words burn clean through me like a lit tip of a cigarette.

But she does have your book.

Y’know, I always thought it was kind of creepy the way some guys would try and look for their mom in other girls.

So this might be a good thing. Less Oedipus-y, more ea–…

Shit. I was gonna say something I’m so sure you’d smack me around the head for. But you’re not here to do that. I might be in better shape with this girl if you were.

Anyway. I miss you.

Eddie Munson stands in the midst of an incredibly awkward aftermath.

See, for two people so purportedly self-assured, he in his freakshow roguishness and you in your prim-perfect knife-edge sharpness, you’re both entirely dogshit at acknowledging… well… anything.

You both tried to snap back to normal so quickly, with Wheeler and her science experiment pregnancy scare smashing through the ice. But the water underneath that ice is still freezing cold– and you’re both pretending you’re not gasping for air, pretending like you don’t remember gasping for each other’s lips.

This is totally cool. This is totally fine.

And then Eddie comes to see you at The Bookstore, which has become just as routine as nearly never brushing his hair, and sees you fixing your seller’s tag to your pick of the week. Your face in that arresting, self-conscious smile that he wants to melt off with the blowtorch of his mouth.

It’s The Patchwork Girl of Oz by L. Frank Baum.

Now, he noticed that you would habitually drop writers’ names into conversation like they were your lit professors– Didion said this, Bukowski said that, Bronte yadda, Burroughs yadda. Always some genius-adjacent, formative-thinking, socio-politico-boffo brainwad, more often than not with a substance abuse kick that you romanticized from a safe distance.

But then you unearth this book, a green clothback cover yellowing with age and roughness, red and yellow inlaid titling blasting out a name he ought to know. It makes his visual memory brrrrrrring! like a bright red tomato shaped kitchen timer.

The Patchwork Girl of Oz was with Elizabeth Munson wherever she went. Her records were her plane tickets, her escape to another world, but you couldn’t take your records with you to the hospital. Escaping to Oz was a decent substitute. She must have read it a bajillion times; she even took to calling Wayne Unc Nunkie after the elderly munchkin who only ever had one word for anybody. And whenever Eddie would drop an egg when they were baking or come running through the house with his knees all cut up, she’d coo, “Oh, my li’l Ojo the Unlucky!”

The book lingered everywhere– on the kitchen counter of the house on Pennsylvania,on the vinyl seat of the booth at the now-shuttered Benny’s when she could afford to take Eddie for a treat, on her bedside table.

Up until the end.

It knocks the wind out of Eddie when he sees it on the display shelf. He does a bad job of hiding that.

“What, too shocked to make fun of me?” you say, perching yourself on the rickety stool behind the counter, and your voice betrays a little embarrassment. “That’s a first.”

“I–... huh?” He tears his eyes away from the book long enough to catch the specks of blush high on your cheeks.

“It’s not my usual flavor, I know, but I’m capable of whimsy too.”

“Why that one?” His limbs feel stony like Unc Nunkie’s, as much as he wants to languidly lean over the counter and bother you like he always does.

You shrug, but you tilt the opposite shoulder. A reverse, a peek behind the looking glass. He notices that about you, which goddamn shoulder is your shrugging preference.

“I think it was one of the first books I kept checking out of the library when I was little,” you say, glancing back at the display, “It’s about this poor little kid who has to find a way to reverse a spell on his uncle who’s been turned to stone, and the eponymous patchwork girl is–”

“I know the story.” It comes out a little blunter than Eddie was intending it to. So much so that it knocks you back a beat.

“Oh,” you say shortly, eyes flaring down at the counter. “No need to cut me off mid-stream about it.”

Eddie winces, knowing he’s coming across as weird and stilted but with no idea how to safely climb down. “No, just– I know the story, yeah. My mom…” That is not a safe dismount, dummy! “...she… liked it a lot.”

“Yeah?” your tone stays even, yanked back from him a little. He wants to be like, sorrysorrysorry. “She ever read it to you?”

“A bunch, actually.”

“No shit.” The corners of your mouth tick up. “Wanna hear something super dorky?”

Just the mere invitation of your little smile loosens him up a bit. Eddie twists a ring around his finger, head kicking to his shoulder as his foot kicks to the counter. “Always,” he says, squinting.

You straighten your spine up on your stool and clear your throat. Hand goes over your heart, like you’re about to recite the damn declaration. Your eyes shutter closed.

“Here’s a job for a boy of brains– a drop of oil from a live man’s veins; a six-leaved clover; three nice hairs, from a Woozy’s tail, the book declares; are needed for a magic spell, and water from a pitch-dark well– the yellow wing from a butterfly to find must Ojo also try; and if he gets them without harm, Doc Pipt will make the magic charm; but if he doesn’t get ‘em, Unc…” your crack one eye open. “...will always stand a marble chunk.”

Eddie is silent for… for a while. For a good handful of heartbeats, for a beat so long that makes you knit your brow up, your eyes needling into him. Eddie’s looking at you with rose-colored soft focus. His elbows are eagerly pitched on the counter now, chin in his hands. The last person to recite those words to him was his mom, her voice raspy and tired but still willing to read to him. She hadn’t smelled like herself. It was sad.

And now, your voice, with all its snippy chainmail thrown off, gone all soft and lyrical and dedicated.

He thinks about a littler you, one he could vaguely pick out of a lineup if he really, really tried, criss-cross applesauce and pouring over that book so often that that little spell jams itself into your brain.

The mage before she donned the mink coat.

Eddie is looking at you and can’t force his heart out of his throat.

Well, until he can.

“Ew,” he cringes.

“What?!” you exclaim, your eyes getting all incredulous and kind of mad.

“And they call me a fuckin’ nerd, what the hell was that?” Eddie’s laughing, mocking, not with his whole heart. But it’s enough to make you scoff, irritated with him again.

See, you thought you were being cute and he knows you thought you were being cute. He needs to put you back in a place where you’re marginally unlikeable enough to just be a friend.

Restore the natural order. Don’t think about how he wants to recite that same verse back to you in front of an ordained Elvis in Vegas. Because he would, in a heartbeat. If he wasn’t committed to not being stupid.

Christ, you’re pretty. Christ, he’s gonna do something stupid.

“You are… completely undateable, you know that?” he nods ferociously, eyes trailing you as you cross out from behind the counter and head for a box of books that need to be shelved. All uh-huhs and sure, Eddies. The bell on the front door jangles and a customer passes behind him.

He yells after you, voice traveling down whatever winding path you’ve taken through the stacks. “You with your black and white movies and your twat rock and your Wizard of Oz… baby, what crowd are you even playing to?”

“What crowd am I playing to? What crowd are you playing to?!” you seethe, shuffling the ten-tonne box of books down the aisle with your feet. “Fucking baggie-pushing, guitar-brutalizing, board-game-...maker-...upper!”

“Woah. Wit’s unmatched as usual, Lace.”

This fucking guy. This fucking guy. You try and do one darling little thing, you just recite a little piece of a book his dead mom used to read to him or whatever, and you get verbally bashed! God forbid, god forbid you let the fucking drawbridge down for half a second! This blows!

You’re trying to be less of a bitch, in case you idiots didn’t notice!

It’s kind of inexplicable, how sensitive you’re feeling about this. Could be that since you kissed and since you pinkie-swore with Nancy Wheeler in the bombed-out boys bathroom, you kind of felt as if you were standing on a blade’s edge with Eddie. Not knowing where to put your hands, not knowing how much or how little to joke around. Not entirely happy with your moment of madness at the Ecker trailer. Not entirely happy that it hadn’t happened again.

But you’re not about to apologize. Not to him. Don Rickles in a battle vest over there. Must he always just poke you like that?!

“You’re undateable!” You shove a bunch of books aside on the shelf. “Me, I’m cu–...”

Right through the shelf, a customer stares at you. Your voice dies in your throat because, unfortunately, he’s looking right at you in your flurry of annoyance toward Eddie. And unfortunately, this stranger, he’s a little…

“What were you gonna say?” he asks, closing Gravity’s Rainbow.

“Cute.”

Guy smiles, doesn’t break eye contact with you for a second. He’s wearing a sweater. He looks fresh out of somewhere stone walled with crawling ivy. “I’d attest to that.”

You forget about Eddie– just for a second. Gesturing to Gravity’s Rainbow, you say, “Gonna attempt to finish that?”

“What’s that mean?” His grin is infectious, or maybe you’re just starved for this kind of attention.

“Nothing,” you say, with a little more tongue than you need to, “Just, I don’t know of anyone that’s ever finished that behemoth.”

Well, you don’t know of a lot of people that read the way you do either. But, digression. He raps a knuckle against the cover of the book and for some reason, you feel it in your belly.

“I always finish,” he tells you.

“Do you now?”

That’s the longest you’ve been quiet in a hot minute, and that’s the kind of thing that gets under Eddie’s skin. Chain on his jeans jangling, he starts off into the creaking labyrinth of lined-up bookcases.

“What, did you expire back here or something…” he mutters, a little whine in his tone– play with me, play with me, even though I’m being kind of a dick to you–

He sees you, a book lying lax in your arms, your body swaying to and fro and you’re–

“--talkin’ to yourself, Lacy? Great look. Real honeytrap, if you’re lookin’ to catch some imaginary di–”

“Eddie,” you grit at him, and he spots the whole other human male you’re talking to through the stacks. Well, not just talking to. Not with that body language.

This dude tilts his chin to Eddie. “Hey, man. I remember you. Didn’t you used to sell dimebags in the woods outside school?”

Fire flares in Eddie’s gut. He vaguely recognizes this guy– class of ‘83 or ‘82, not remarkable enough to be hateable but now, he’s certainly collegiate looking enough to be… distracting to you. So, annoying to him.

“Why, man? You lookin’ to buy? Or just cruise some high schooler tail?”

“Eddie!” you hiss again and he scoffs like, really?! You turn back to this… whoever the fuck. “C’mon, I’ll check you out.”

“You’ll check him out, huh?” Eddie sneers, bearing over you as you pass him in the aisle. Body heat breezing right by, face a mask of sheer disgust. Impulse talks; it totally wants to just grab you and throw you behind him and– well, he hasn’t thought that far ahead yet. But he’s creative. Who the fuck even is this guy? Where did he come from?

“That you?” this guy says, jerking his head toward the staff display, toward The Patchwork Girl of Oz. “Lacy?”

“To my friends and co-conspirators,” you say, ringing up that godawful Pynchon book.

“Which one was that guy?” he asks, watching you jot out his receipt on the carbon copy pad because for whatever reason, Ivana’s cash register is from the fucking 1800s and she refuses to upgrade to anything with a thermal printer. “Friend? Co-conspirator? … boyfriend?”

You wrinkle your nose. And don’t exactly answer, but it’s enough confirmation for him.

“Good. Say, why don’t you jot down your number on this thing?” He pushes the receipt back to you. “I can keep you updated on my Pynchon progress. You can… see if I’m good enough to co-conspire with.”

You like this approach. In fact, you love this approach, because you hadn’t been earnestly picked up in… forever. And he has this certain je ne sais quoi about him, something that screams moved out of state for college. You stay grinning, biting your lip for a good breath or two after he leaves the store.

Then Eddie appears in your peripheral, like some terrible harbinger of embarrassment.

“Undateable, huh?” you say, fully aware that he was earwigging on that whole exchange because he’s a nosy bitch and he can’t help himself. Glutton for gossip.

“You don’t have to throw yourself at the first person who walks in the store just to prove a point, baby,” Eddie tells you, this big face of condescension. You want to smack it off him so bad your palms are itching.

You huff and backtrack to where that box of unshelved books sits. “Maybe I’m tired of waiting around.”

—

Ronnie Ecker and Robin Buckley are looking each other in the eye, wolf-whistling furtively when you elbow open the door of the gym.

“You’re flat. I’m telling you you’re flat,” Ronnie’s insisting, an adorable three inches away from Robin’s face.

“I can’t be flat! A mouth whistle cannot be flat!”

It’s marching band practice. You don’t know what the hell goes on in here and you know better than to ask.

“Would you two get a room already?” you call, heels clicking across the glossed wood of the gym. These dorks have all got their feathered hats and bibs on, a kind of half-assed dress rehearsal for some pep rally they’re having on Friday. You missed the bulletin– kind of stopped paying attention, actually. Extracurricular distraction is a hell of a drug.

“Excuse me, this is a closed–” that’s the voice of Miss Genovese, the band teacher, stomping down from the bleachers in these tragic little loafers with the pleather peeling off. She makes it about halfway toward you, then this exasperated look washes right over her. The teacher dashes for the double doors and you point after her with a freshly painted red index finger. New lease on looking good.

“And that is?”

“Like, the third time in the last hour,” Ronnie shakes her head, taking her flamboyant little hat off. “Biggest running theory is morning sickness.”

What, is pregnancy like, catching or something? you’re about to muse.

“It’s almost contagious, right?” Robin says, tugging at her clip-on collar, “I mean, first your whole thing and now–”

Ronnie doesn't even have a chance to gesture for her to ixnay! before she slams pause on herself, eyes wide and all shit, did I say that out loud?! Your eyes narrow in return. That’s suspicious.

“What whole thing? My whole what?”

Ever and eternally knowing when to call it, Ronnie holds a hand up before Robin can even start to scramble an apology and serve it to you. Panther versus a precious little puppy dog– the fight ain’t even fair.

“Nothing. Scuttlebutt bullshit, the usual,” she rolls her eyes, throws a sympathetic glance to Robin who winces and retreats. Huh.

“What’s going on with you two?” you ask, crossing your legs over the bottom rung of the bleachers.

This actually makes Ronnie’s expression soften a little– her eyes race back in Robin’s direction and you swear you catch a blush. “Also nothing! Compound nothing. Why, does it look like…”

Lips purse into a little satisfied grin. Knew it. Toldja. Point to Lacy. “Looks like whatever you want it to look like.”

Ronnie reaches forward and waves her feathered hat in your face– stop being so observant! You cough in protest– ew, I don’t know where that thing has been!

“Whatever! What brings you to geek church?”

“That’s what they’re calling it now?”

“Stick around, we’ll start speaking in tongues.”

“Satanic Panic bringing about a fun new turn for the pep rally! Put some God back into that wind instrument,” you croon. “No, I actually wanted your thoughts on something.”

Ronnie raises her eyebrows and you feel like you oughta mirror her. You’re not usually one to seek out a second opinion, but the more you’ve gotten to know Ronnie, the more you see that she’ll tell you how it is. Especially now that you’ve dispersed with the whole intimidating it-girl cloud and she’s stopped pretending to be shy.

“I know. I’m shocked too.”

“I’m honored,” she swings her shoulders in girlish delight, “Dish it up, Doevski.”

“Okay, so,” you clap, hiking forward on your creaking bleacher, “I’ve been seeing this guy–”

“--this is the bookstore guy?”

A blink and a beat. “How’d you know about that?”

A face that has Eddie told me with footnotes of and he was kind of jealous scrawled all over it stares back at you. “I ‘unno, maybe I overheard…”

“Doesn’t matter.” You slice a hand through the air, no time for this right now. “Facts are facts, I’ve been hanging out with this guy,” interesting change of phraseology, considering, “and he’s a college guy–”

“If they could see you now.” The royal court of Hawkins, obviously. Older guys are generally an accomplishment. But Ronnie’s half-jesting.

“--I know, shut up. But, he mentioned something that would absolutely rock my college applications is a really, really great–”

“--feature in the Streak?” you’d gasped out in the back of his Ford Cortina (how very European!). College guy’s mouth was on your neck and his hand was inching into your shirt, playing at a faux placket of pearl buttons. Boys can never tell a real button from a fake one, apparently, even if they go to an East Coast school. I mean, shit! You’d gleaned enough information from him over a shake at the diner; relatively well-to-do family that lived near the Wheelers on Maple and kind of underwhelming taste in lit for an English major.

But he maintained eye contact and listened to your witty little bon mots, even if he didn’t… laugh at them. One thing led to another and thus, the backseat college advisory-slash-makeout session.

“Yeah, yeah, they love that shit…” he’d said, moving to your mouth in order to swallow any forthcoming words. But his words had piqued your interest more than his fingers had.

“What about an underdog story?” you said, eyes kind of hazing over in the middle distance.

“Sure, underdog, great…” college guy grabbed ahold of your leg and tugged you into him, “We can talk more about it later, okay?”

“Okay–”

“–okay?”

Ronnie grimaces. “I didn’t need that much detail.”

“Yes, you did.” You stare at her. “I’m a storyteller.”

Ronnie chews the proposal over a little, cheeks kind of bunched up in confusion. Behind her, band geeks badly hide their hickeys and exhibit too-gangly, too-obvious body language. No inspiration to be tapped from there.

“An underdog story… on the society pages? Like, who could you possibly–”

You smile that awful, conniving smile, because you came in here armed. “Ye of little faith.”

“Oh, no,” Ronnie says, and honestly, you’re a little taken aback by that reaction, “Hellfire?”

A shrug pulls your shoulders right up, rapidly on the defense. “Why not, right?”

“Why not– Lacy, you almost guillotined Jeff that one time he asked you.”

True that you hadn’t had the inches of article to spare for Hellfire Club in not-too-ancient history, but, “That was then, this is now! World’s changing– and it’s topical!”

The whole Satanic panic thing really did tickle your funny bone; and you saw yourself having a little fun with that by turning the focus on Hellfire. Subverting Eddie’s cult-leader mythos to show that he is just a kid who might have a propensity for telling a good story, surrounded by other kids who want to get a word in. You’re not looking to turn the tide on his reputation or anything but maybe… y’know. You could do the admirable journalistic thing and scratch the surface a bit. Show what you’ve learned.

It’s a challenge. You love a challenge.

“And it’s a good excuse to get in Eddie’s face,” Ronnie’s voice breaks through.

There is a lonnng beat, one you hold like the last shoes in your size at a sample sale. Your mouth keeps going to make the words yeah, right or it’s not about him! or y’know, something to exonerate you from the notion.

“I know he isn’t…” Ronnie trails off, coming to sit next to you. “that he’s kind of being weird to you right now.”

Go ahead and feign that ignoramus, girl. Shoulders quirking and all.

“Oh. Is he?”

And then Ronnie says maybe the dumbest thing on the planet, regarding the abominable sitch between you and Eddie Munson.

“You should just talk to him.”

“Ecker, there’s fruitless efforts and then there’s barren wasteland,” you scoff, “Guess which category proposing this to Eddie falls into.”

“That’s not what I–”

J’excuse, Ronnie, but you don’t care! Because this isn’t actually about anything other than getting all of those dice-throwing dorks, including Miss Ecker herself, into your damn paper. Okay?

“We have to ambush him! Element of surprise, that’s it,” you smile primly and hop off the bleachers. “I’m just going to show up at Hellfire, photographer in hand and– he won’t have a choice, will he?”

Ronnie’s expression is a mask of reproachfulness. You don’t let it shake you. You’re a cat playing with a now-endless ball of yarn, and you’re unshakeable.

“He’s such a sucker for attention,” you say, tossing your hair, and it sounds a lot more like you’re convincing yourself than anyone else in this echoey gym, “He won’t be able to resist.”

—

Reefer Rick doesn’t call, unless it’s an emergency. All of his communication is inbound, or passed through a shoulder check and a goofy smile at Melvald’s, or a nod of the head across the pool table at The Hideout. He doesn’t frequent there so much, because Bev knows he’s a pool shark and ever since ‘Nam, his ears are a little too sensitive to all that metal racket, man! By all means, rock on, but by then I gotta go rock-a-bye myself to sleep, alright? Anyway, that’s how Eddie knows to ride over to his place, if it’s not through a call he’s placed himself.

You need me, kid, you come and find me.

So when Eddie gets a call that says, “We gotta pow-wow, ese,” his nerves are set on edge. Not that he wasn’t feeling bad enough, what with the fact that some douchebag in a Cortina had picked you up and dropped you off to school the last couple of days. What with the fact he had actively dogged the car down a little bit of the road from the trailer park with his van, resisting every temptation to just run it all the way off into a ditch. And what with the fact he didn’t know what to say to you about that without it coming out in an anti-missive of jealousy! jealousy! jealousy! so what he did say to you was… nothing.

You two can’t maintain a consistent line of communication to save your lives, he realizes. There’s too much left unsaid, and the both of you are too stubborn or too scared to say any of it. Or even think it, in his case! The amount of times he’d had to slap himself sober, his brain going into overdrive thinking, if I had just told her… It’s a ‘friendship’, if you can even call it that, based on barbs and bad behavior and doing things because you know you shouldn’t. For the thrill. Right?

Like. Whatever. It’s not like he’d made tapes of a half dozen Black Sabbath albums because you mentioned you wanted to ‘study up’ on that ‘monster music’ he’s making. It’s not like you’d given him an annotated copy of Still Life with Woodpecker because he wanted to throw some ‘nonsensical curveball shit’ into a later Hellfire campaign.

It’s not like Eddie missed you– he just… should have seen this coming, is all. He’s used to getting left in the dust while people move onto better things, or whatever.

God, Munson, your voice taunts him from somewhere in his hippocampus, need some help nailing yourself to that crucifix?

Anyway, fuck, Rick called him.

Rick had gotten out of lockup about a month ago– some truncated charge or another that Eddie didn’t bother asking too much about, mostly because… well, Rick hadn’t really been himself. Larger and brighter than the sun itself, the great and powerful lion of a man that oozed life ain’t shit if you ain’t havin’ fun energy, Rick had kind of dimmed. Lost a lot of weight while he was inside. Came back a little bit twitchy and fluent in Spanglish, for some reason.

Eddie was worried, because of all the adult figures in his life, Rick was meant to be the one with levity. He’d lost out on a fun uncle when Wayne stepped into his father-figure role. Al was nothing but a dangerous bit player. Rick, he could rely on.

Thinking back to that infamous day when he had gotten loaded at Lipton Landing, before he picked up you and Ronnie, before he… well, you know the rest but, Eddie had sensed that Rick could use the company. He kind of tried to poke it out of him, whatever was wrong. Didn’t work. They had just watched The Godfather in a tense-ish silence and doofed a lot of joints. Sorta freaked him out.

Eddie’s crushing gravel on the descent to the infamously slanted Lipton Landing for his summons. There’s a hum that seems to traverse the window panes, a fond plucking work that could only belong to Link Wray. He puts the van in park and jogs up the steps to the front door, bracing himself for the pungent plume of skunk smoke that always greets him.

“Eduardo,” Rick’s voice curls around the greeting like smoke curls out of his mouth and he yanks Eddie over the threshold. Door slams, arm tightens around his shoulders. “You’re here.”

Rick’s always a handsy sorta guy–not like that!–but this grab makes him seize a little.

“You rang,” Eddie says, voice lilting, “Everything okay?”

Rick clutches him by the shoulders and looks at him for a long, long time. Uncomfortably long. How has he managed to puff on that joint for this long without choking long.

“No.”

And Rick begins a shuffle toward the kitchen. Eddie follows in an awkward half-step, headache threatening to bloom someplace in the back of his skull because he does not know how much more of this vagueness he can take!

“Does it have anything to do with why you called me down here? Because, shit, I would love to get a straight answer out of someone for once!” A mirthless chuckle follows, trying to soften his desperation.

A flick of the refrigerator door and Rick places two beers on his kitchen counter, hands bracing against the surface. “Then let’s sit crooked and talk straight. It’s about your…”

Hss. Eddie takes a notoriously mis-timed sip.

“...neighbor girl.”

Ffflp– Eddie wishes, just one day of his goddamned life, he could act cool at the mention of you. Even the suggestion of the mention of you. But no, he’s got PBR streaming from his nose like a moron and a look on his face that says uh-oh, spaghettio!

“That’s what I was afraid of,” says Rick, taking a knowingly smooth drink from his beer.

With the heel of his hand, Eddie wipes away his spluttering mess and fumbles around for a crumb of nonchalance.

“I don’t know–”

“Eddie,” Rick levels. God, Eddie hates it when adults are adults, and Rick hates having to act the adult even more.

His shoulders drop. “What about her?”

“Well, when I was in the pen–local, I’ll have you know–I got approached by a very interesting man with a proposition I was powerless to refuse.”

With some trepidation, Eddie mumbles, “Oh, yeah?”

“Someone– well, let’s say me and this someone have a friend in common…”

“Rick–” Eddie’s attempting the leveling thing, but he’s not as good at it as Rick is. Or as you are, for that matter. And you’re who he’s attempting to imitate here, even if he won’t admit it.

“--a certain mutual business partner, if you will–”

“Rick.” Eddie tries to punch through the tension with the big man’s name. “It was Lacy’s dad. Right? You can just say it was her dad.”

Rick’s brow sinks into a wrinkle. “...Lacy? The fuck kind of a dumb name is that?”

“It’s a nickname.” Why does Eddie feel defensive.

“The fuck kind of a dumb nickname is that?”

“They call you Reefer Rick.”

“That is a calculated business decision, a calling card if you w–”

“Rick. Can we close in on the point, here?” Ooh! Seems to actually work this time, much to Eddie’s relief. “I only got so many if you wills left in me.”

“Si, pronto,” Rick nods with apologetic understanding; he’s such an empath, this guy, “Long and short of it is, her pops offered me a little bit of cash and some assistance, iffin’ I promised to keep an eye on her.”

“Assistance…?” Eddie murmured out of the side of his mouth. It’s all in the way Rick says it! “Like…” Hand a loose fist. Jerky-jerk.

“Eddie,” Rick chides, “Assistance gettin’ out. In prison, that is just called bein’ sociable. –anyway, I have this conflict of interest, with the whole surveillance thing.”

“And what is that?”

“You.” The way Rick drops it is obviously meant to cause some kinda ripple effect of realization, but Eddie’s still confused.

“So you… didn’t take the money?”

“Huh?” Now Rick’s all confused. “Of course I took the fuckin’ money! What kind of a chump do I look like, man? What I’m getting at is, I knew that rattin’ on her also meant rattin’ on you.”

“Wh– why would it…”

“I got eyes everywhere, man. Dig? I’ve seen what’s been happening.”

Eddie’s heart leaps into his larynx. Eyes everywhere. And the truth was, you two had been stupid enough to be a lot of everywhere, thinking your respective trailers were the only hot zones. The Bookstore, the Hawk, Main Street Vinyl, Family Video, the diner, you name a Hawkins establishment and it has probably seen Eddie Munson and Lacy Doevski good-naturedly bickering in its aisles.

He wonders if Rick even had eyes in the Ecker trailer. Ronnie could be a Lipton informant. That girl can hold a secret about as well as Wayne Munson can hold his liquor, which is gracefully.

“Nothing’s been happening, we’re just–”

“Eddie.” Like a bulldozer, this guy. “I know Ivana pretty well. You ain’t hangin’ around that bookstore for the good of your health.”

“So what, you’re gonna–,” Eddie can feel himself starting to scramble, starting to sweat, backed into a corner like a hunted animal, “...tell her dad that we went to the movies a couple of times? That I go to her job, that I– that we’re–”

“What are you?” The way Rick puts it to him– rock, meet hard place. Should this really feel like such a tough question to answer?

“Friends.”

Rick draws up to his full height (tall, mountain man) and looks at him like he just shoved a cream pie into his face.

“It doesn’t matter, okay!” Eddie froths over, like a snapping dog, “We’re barely hanging out– anymore– so you can… you’re not gonna tell him anything, are you?”

Rick’s hands slowly, slowly rise, urging him to calm the yapping. No need to get into such a tizzy. Which Eddie wishes he could believe.

“‘course not, man,” he shakes his head, “Ray Doevski only needs to know what Ray Doevski absolutely needs to know.” Eddie can feel a little more weight behind that sentence than he’d like. “No reason you need to figure into this story.”

“That– that’s it? You’re not gonna tell him about u– about me?”

“You’re in enough of a shitheap as it is, is how I see it.” A beat. Rick takes him in; really takes him in. Feels like an embrace, his stare. Concern uncrinkles the ever-present smile in Rick’s eyes.

“Eddie, you care about this girl?”

Eddie’s mouth attempts to form around an answer, but he’s just blinking into nothing. Does he care about you? Does he care about you? He wants, needs to say no, to pfft you off, but every molecule is screaming otherwise. And Rick can sense it, operating on the extraterrestrial level that he does.

“Then I’m real sorry.”

“For what?”

As if on cue, car wheels on gravel shuck Rick’s attention away from him. His eyeballs jitter in his head, heading for the door– Eddie close behind him. “Sorry for what, Rick–?!”

“Little bit for that, little bit for… this.”

Standing in the window of Rick’s living room, these two watch an offensively red muscle car skew into the driveway, making a mockery of Eddie’s beat up van. The driver’s door pops open and the first thing Eddie clocks is a blinding glint off some brand new aviator sunglasses.

The second is that trademark Munson smile.

—

“This is exciting!” Nancy Wheeler says, kind of flatly but with a conviction buried deep under her curled bangs.

On the table sits two piles of playing cards, one steadily growing and one steadily decreasing.

You two had taken to playing gin rummy when staring at paper layouts became a little too much. Technically, she actually had a say in layout and you were just nosy, but it’s a decent excuse to hang out. Though, both you and Nancy had this incredible tendency to hyperfocus on detail so hard that neither of you could pull the other out far enough to look at the big picture, so one day she tossed a deck of cards your way and said, “Deal!”

“I know,” you say, trying to focus on these melds of suits you’re making– that discard pile is looking poor, “Fresh turn for me, y’know? Less fluffy, more Didion.”

Nancy snorts softly, swapping out a card from her hand. “Who does that make Eddie? Charlie? Or Linda Kasabian?”

A smile dances across your lips and you shrug, reaching for a cigarette before you go for another card. Usually, smoking in the newsroom was prohibited, as it was prohibited on most of Hawkins High grounds, but whenever that deck came out, you felt it was appropriate for at least one of you to be smoking. Gave a kind of Torchy Blane feel to the whole scenario which fit you and Wheeler pret-ty keenly, if you did say so yourself.

“That’s not what I was talking about, though,” Nancy says, poking Fred Benson’s empty mug toward you to use as an ashtray.

Your eyes narrow; this could be a play to distract you from a winning hand.

“It’s not?”

“No…” she puffs out another soft scoff, meeting your eyes over her fan of cards, “I mean the college guy.”

“Why is it exciting?” and you do want to know why Nancy thinks so. She’s a mile wiser beyond her years, even precocious enough to keep in step with you most of the time. You’d like her take.

“Well, it’s what you wanted, right?” she tells you, watching you puff your cigarette and dig into the stock pile. “Somebody older, decidedly not a grabby high school boy– but someone with more experience, both with girls and with being outside of Hawkins. And the fact he goes to Vassar means–”

“He probably eats kitty like a maniac.”

Nancy lets out this full-bodied Merlot of a laugh, only a little color dashing over her cheeks. She’s gotten used to you being provocative on purpose because it gets a laugh out of her. So far grown out of the prude shoes you were sure she was still sporting. You’re proud of her.

“Not exactly what I was getting at but– more sensitive to the female perspective, sure.” But then she registers what you forgot you’d even dropped. “Hold on, probably? You mean you haven’t–...”

You shrug. It’s a little withdrawn on your part.

“Oh,” Nancy says, and seems to be leaning a degree or two towards unsurprised. That ruffles your feathers a little bit. Again, with the frigid thing. You couldn’t shake it.

“No,” you emphasize, shucking your pitiful melds back again. “It's not as if we haven't–done things. I've copped a handful. Time is of the essence, and I take, y'know, a little more time to get there.”

“So no return on investment...?”

"Not... yet."

Nancy almost tosses her cards at you, the way she jabs them through the air. “You? You, the one who’s been preaching Betty Friedman to me, you haven't been getting–”

“Yes, me! Did you not hear me about time and the essence?”

“I know, it’s just– a little surprising.”

There have been exactly three instances of almost you tying your panties to the rearview mirror of college boy’s Ford Cortina, so to speak, and you’ve come out of each one with this desperate echo of oh well! Maybe next time! careening around your skull. Like you’re trying to convince yourself that by virtue of him not being in your grade, this has been a worthwhile way to spend your time. And listen, no misunderstandings here, it has! At least, part of it. It usually starts like this– the two of you grab some shitty diner coffee or some shitty diner food and then he takes you around in his car for a turn or two, admiring that famous Hawkins scenery (see: shuttered businesses and if you’re really lucky, that one mangy fox that feasts on the overflowing trash can near the Big Buy). You talk (you mostly talk) books and movies and say something that should be a hook of conversation but usually ends up with him screwing his face up in amusement and saying something along the lines of, “God, you’re so beyond this place.”

Which, duh. You’ve been saying this. This is the raft upon which your whole identity floats.

The exchange dies in the air and he puts his hand on your leg and that is just… wonderful. He’s a solid B on the kissing GPA, and he’s cute and sort of funny, even if he doesn’t rally back jokes the way you’d… sort of gotten used to. Sometimes he makes a halfway-interesting observation about like, Philip Roth or somebody. But when it comes down to the minute of it, it still feels like going through the motions. Fumble bra strap, catch nail on his zipper, crank back passenger seat to climb in the back. Hey presto, you’ve distractedly jerked off a boy once again.

You are not entirely sold on the fit of his hands on your body, even if he doesn’t look at you like he’s just solved a Rubik’s cube.

In fact, he kind of looks at you like you’re precious. Virginal precious. Innocent precious. Which you’re not totally sold on either.

Nothing about him that makes you fantasize about what his mouth might feel like on you. What your fingers might feel like wound around his curls. His hair doesn’t even curl. There’s just nothing about him that calls for your full attention.

“Think there might be a reason for that?” Nancy, your annoyingly perceptive Nancy, presses. Goddamn intrepid girl reporter. She hasn’t stopped staring at you with that smug little look. You haven’t answered the question. “And it might be… living across the way from you?”

“Tch. What?” you snip. “I’m… having fun. What?”

“Nothing,” she smiles. “Just… gin.”

She lays out her dazzling melds, complete with a measly goddamned three in deadwood cards and you toss your own bullshit hand to the side. A dumb amount of spades that add up to nothing scatter across the desk. An accusatory finger jams in her direction.

“You are a fucking card shark.”

“Nope!” Nancy says, popping her ‘p’, “I just know a really great set when I see one.”

Reaching into Fred’s mug, you crush your cigarette with a little too much force. Now, how would Nancy have a read on that? you think, oblivious to your own obviousness. (Like a neon sign. Like a circus tent.)

You hadn’t even reminded her of the catastrophic events of her thirteenth birthday which led to a whole lot of this awkwardness, which, now that you thought about it, actually implicated her in the crime of you kissing Eddie Munson ‘til you were breathless in Granny Ecker’s closet.

If you hadn’t been born and had a birthday, I wouldn’t be in a spiral over some boy with a curl pattern like a fucking backwoods libertine.

“You’re not clever,” you tell her, but she’s looking at you all cleverly, “Like. You’re clever, but I need you to know that you’re not clever.”

With flicking fingernails, Nancy picks up your discarded cards and folds them neatly back in the deck.

“I’m just saying,” and the tone she takes is a little gentler now, “don’t… let yourself miss out on something just because, I don’t know, the thing you’re currently having fun with is what you think you want. What you feel you want and what you think you want are two very different–”

“This isn’t entirely about me, is it?” you realize, defenses peeling down a little bit. The Nancy and Steve of it all had been looming since your (admittedly triumphant!) visit to the war memorial that was the boy’s bathroom. Still no sign of that place getting fixed, by the by. And ever still, Nancy hadn’t told Steve about their little mission. Many a reason for that, you were led to believe. Not a lot she wanted to dissect, though.

Nancy’s face scrunches up and she stops packing the cards.

“No. But let’s pretend like it is.”

A groan escapes you as you sink back into your chair, a twinge of pain running along your shoulders.

“Nance. This is all so much more complicated than you realize.”

“Try me.”

You toss a hand through your hair, slapping your palm down on the desk.

“Fine. But if I tell you this–”

A hand rises out between the two of you– yours, pinkie extended.

“Not a word,” you press.

Nancy clamps her finger around yours in a way that enforces how super-serious she is about this. The reason your usual reserve doesn’t hold up under that x-ray stare of hers is because you can tell she actually gives a shit. She’s not looking for gossip. She cares. Which is still an entirely alien feeling to you.

So the whole thing spills out. Steve’s party, the record store, getting locked up in Eddie’s trailer and getting locked up in feelings, Roane County Quarry’s incredible acoustics, the friendship that made you fold all the neatly arranged origami parts of yourself out toward him only to realize you had no idea how to fold them back. The kiss. The subsequent awkwardness of said kiss. The college guy. The relative radio silence. The fact that…

“...I don’t feel like myself when he’s not around,” you say, lighting a fourth cigarette off your third. “Isn’t that silly? I spent all this time painting this like, fabulous eggshell of myself then this wild-eyed, smart-mouthed, catastrophic ass smashes it clean open and now–”

“All the college boys couldn’t put you together again,” Nancy nods. “You’re a very beautiful Humpty Dumpty.”

“... does Humpty Dumpty die in the end?”

“Maybe we shouldn’t be teaching it to kids.”

“No. They should know. The fall comes for us all.”

There’s a suspended silence. You get this feeling like you’ve emptied your purse on the table and you still can’t find that thing you’re looking for, despite sifting through everything.

“How does that even happen?” you question, biting at the skin on your little finger. Not Humpty Dumpty, the Eddie thing. It comes out idle, but you pray that Nancy, with her feelings scalpel and surgical precision, doesn't decide to answer it.

Instead, she says, “You need a photographer for that piece.”

Thatta girl. Your dimmer switch turns up. “Fred hasn’t even okayed it yet.”

“I’ll deal with William Randolph Hearst, okay?” Nancy says derisively and tosses her eyes to heaven. She pushes her chair back. “Ask Jonathan Byers.”

“He hasn’t taken photos for us in a while,” you remark, eyes searching Nancy. She’s readying herself to leave, so totally dodging this line of questioning before you can even cast it. Clever.

“No, he has not,” she sighs, winding her scarf around her neck, “But he’d be good for this. He knows how to capture action. And his kid brother plays DnD with mine, so this’d be, like… nice for them.”

And this is just as much me making amends with Jonathan Byers as it is you, backwards as it may seem, you nearly hear her say. Or you’re making that up.

Shame Nancy is so dead set on becoming the next Nellie Bly. Under the right circumstances, she’d make a hell of a normal person.

Good thing you prefer freaks.

—

Jonathan Byers is a notoriously hard boy to get a hold of, it turns out. Nancy passed along his number (which, you actually already had but you didn’t bring that little detail up) and when you finally punched it in on the yellowing phone nailed to the wall of your trailer, it rang and rang and rang.

Which, after the fourth time, was just rude. Do the Byers have a thing about not answering the phone, or something?

“Jonathan!” you holler across the parking lot, emerging from the passenger side of Nancy’s car this time.

College guy was decidedly busy and despite the hanging tension, you’d toyed with the idea of asking Eddie for a ride. Alas, the boy in the Dio patched battle vest was nowhere to be seen. His van hadn’t been there since the weekend and he had been MIA from school the last couple of days, actually, which was itching at you.

It also made you miss when you had a goddamn set of wheels at your disposal.

Anyway, Jonathan looks at you with flaring eyes, kind of like you’ve just stuck a shotgun to his snout and there’s no hope of him making a getaway. “Um…”

Now, keep in mind that these are the first words you’ve spoken to him in a measurable high school forever, so his surprise is entirely justified. It’s just not within the beam of your patience right now.

“Hi. Can we chat?” you say, falling in step with him as you head towards the front door. You don’t bother asking for permission, and forgiveness won’t be necessary. “I was hoping you could help me out with a piece for the Streak.”

Blink, blink. Jonathan’s grasping for words– seems to be a lot of that going around lately.

You strike your hand through the air. “Let me put it to you like this– you are going to help me out with a piece for the Streak.”

“Why?” he asks, and it’s prickly.

“Becauuuse,” you draw out, “I need a photographer. And god knows whenever Nicole attempted to work a lens, those snapshots were so out-of-focus they looked like an optical illusion.”

“And, you’re not talking to Nicole right now,” Jonathan nails you, but not totally. In your mind, you revisit flashes of Nicole recounting, in gloriously erroneous detail, those photos Jonathan had taken of Nancy. You had pretended to be scandalized and rolled your eyes, thinking what’s a little peep show among losers.

“Even if I was,” you say, dogging Jonathan all the way to his locker, “I still wouldn’t ask her. This is important to me.”

That avoidant Byers reserve stands strong, with Jonathan grabbing books in hurried succession. He is trying to get away from you, but that’s not happening without an emphatic yes!

“I don’t even really–”

“Take pictures anymore?” you pfft, pointing to his messenger bag, “Twenty bucks says your camera is in there and the film’s half shot.”

“I don’t have twenty bucks.”

“Me neither,” you shrug, “Spent it on that new Echo & the Bunnymen.”

Jonathan hesitates a bit, fingers strumming against his biology textbook. A thread of something long forgotten by the listening booths of Main Street Vinyl tugs between you both, but it’s not weighed down by the prospect of will we kiss about it. He kind of smiles.

“What did you think? I haven’t gotten down to hear it yet.”

You thought it made you want a flowing dress and a place to prance. Like if the more whimsical end of Fleetwood Mac didn’t exhaust you. Those last four tracks snapped your heartstrings like suspenders, with comical aplomb.

“Grandiose! That ‘Killing Moon’ song? It’s got Jonathan Byers written all over it,” you chirp, and mean it. “I’ll make you a copy if you put that camera to work for me.”

He shrugs, but you can see you’re wearing him down. “I’m not much for shooting pep rallies.”

“Liar. Wheeler says you’re top banana in the action shots department,” you counter, “But how about players? I think I want some portraits, too. Non-corny ones.”

“What team?” Jonathan screws up his nose. The distaste for jockery runs deep, and rightfully so.

But you shake your head, face curving into an expression of near excitement.

“No team. Better, and worse, depending on what side of the cafeteria you’re sitting,” your hands splay out, and for god’s sake, you feel like Munson himself, “Hellfire Club.”

Jonathan looks like his record’s skipped. Eyeballs sort of jiggle in his skull and he mouths, oh, like the association of you between Hellfire should mean something. Suspiciously like Nancy, and just suspicious period. Your eyebrows start to inch towards one another.

“What’s that look? Does that mean you’ll do it?”

“Um,” he dillies, then dallies, “Sure. Yeah. You know, my kid brother loves DnD.”

Ah, yes. The other Byers boy, the one who’d gone missing all that time ago. You remembered. Actually, you remembered not being able to figure out how you should feel about it– how you should act, other than falling in line with the majority of people who were giving Jonathan shit at the time. You regret that now, with a chill that runs right down to your toes.

“Could be cool for him to see, no?” you try, corner of your mouth lifting, “A little niche in the midst the high school horrors. To look forward to, y’know.”

The look on Jonathan’s face is more than a little bit screaming, that’s rich, coming from you, you were the high school horror. But he shakes it off, because he’s nicer than you are, even though he doesn’t need to be.

“Yeah… whatever you say, Lacy. When do you need me?”

You tell him Friday and he agrees, much to your satisfaction. You’re just about to punch him on the shoulder like teamwork, buddy! before he saves you such a wildly out-of-character display by dodging toward his homeroom.

You sail toward your locker like the bastard that’s risen alongside the cream, only to be greeted by something… strange. Scratches, all around the maudlin gray paintwork of your combination lock. Like it’d been tampered with, or something. A blaze of paranoia burns at the base of your skull, and you instinctively try to recount where your journal is… in your bag. Phew. Fine. This could be… anything.

Fingers reach forward to twist your lock, and with the slightest touch, the door is forced open by a push from the other side. A flash of bright red, then SPLAT. Yellow, SPLAT, blue, SPLAT, SPLAT, SPLAT! You shriek a real ear-piercing shriek as at least a dozen water balloons spill out of your locker, hitting the floor with an obscene smack. Water dashes everywhere, and you’re barely able to move out of the splash zone in time.

“What the fuck!’

Within seconds, there’s a hubbub and a crowd’s gathering, trading sickening snickers with one another as you peer into the dark of your locker. You gingerly step through the puddle, suede boots irreparably spattered, and yank the door the whole way open. There, sat atop your schoolbooks and a stray water balloon that hadn’t made the fall, is a horribly familiar set of test tubes.

In one of them sits a squirt of blue liquid and that offensive strip of plastic. And scrawled across it in clumsy black marker?

IT’S A FREAK!

Realization hits you like Carol did, making your head swim among all the murmurs of oh my god… and gross! and told you–trailer trash and unconcealed cackles. A voice sparks up like a sizzling ember in a swathe of darkness.

“Where’s your baby daddy at, Lacy? Get tossed in the slammer with your old man?”

The languid tones of none other than Billy All-Balls-No-Brains Hargrove drift by you, sailing right past the back of your head as you stare a hole through the innards of your locker. Then, your stupid hippocampus gears up– Robin, mentioning ‘your whole thing’ while Genovese baby-barfed her guts up, Ronnie urging her to shut the fuck up, even Jonathan Byers was privy to this hot little piece of gossip.

This theory that you were up the spout with Munson Junior Junior.

How many people had seen you, stupid little you, coming out of that drugstore hiking that Advance box over your head like the championship cup? Seen you hopping into Eddie’s van– and out of it, and back in again on what now seemed like countless occasions?

Nobody could have suspected it was Nancy’s test, because nobody saw her. They saw you. That was the whole idea. You just didn’t consider the blowback.

“What’s going on out here?” the softly-coated concern of Ms Kelley rings out in the hallway, doing absolutely nothing to disperse the peanut gallery that’s set up around your locker.

“Lacy?” her voice points to you. Even the goddamn guidance counselor uses your beloved nickname.

You don’t react. You don’t even know what you’re doing until you come to a couple of paces down the hallway, feeling the thin, straining rubber in the palm of your hand. Your footsteps make heavy, wet, slapping noises against the linoleum as you follow the half-slouched shouldered swagger of Billy Hargrove down the hall.

Down, and down, and down towards the boy’s locker room and he doesn’t even register it, and you don’t even register that Ms Kelley is still calling your name–your full name, now–until she’s two dozen paces behind you, losing you in the throng of students making their way to class and you shove past half-dressed seniors in the locker room who guffaw at you in a way that feels like a knife in your gut and you yell, voice shaking–

“Hey Billy!”

And launch the water balloon, making square contact with his smug face.

“Cute fucking prank!”

His reaction, predictably, is way too slowww moooootion for your fucking liking, so you don’t even give him a shot to fully wipe his face off and mumble, “What the fuuuuck is yourrrr probbbblemmm, ssssllluuuutttt…”

You just go for him with the ferocity of a jumping jackal. Hands ball in his stupid sleeveless flannel (it’s winter in Indiana, you West Coast jackass!) and you shove him against the lockers with– well, with the strength only an ex-cheerleader brimming with suffocated rage would have.

Metal clatters and one empty unit even careens over like a big tin domino and you say, “Come up with that idea all by yourself, you fucking nimrod?”

Billy just smirks at you in half-speed, mullet sopping, as if this is a come-on. “I had a little help.”

It occurs to you that right here, right now, you could sell Nancy Wheeler down the river. You could be the you you once were, and you could say, well, primo observation skills, that pregnancy test wasn’t even for me!

But you don’t, because a pinky promise is a fucking pinky promise.

You let go of Billy’s shirt. Step off. “You’re pathetic,” you spit, but it feels more pathetic coming from you. All that molten blood in your veins makes you want to eviscerate him and whoever else was involved in orchestrating this stupid, stupid, stupid prank. But you come up lacking. Fuck!

Tears prickle at the corners of your eyes and you start to rush out of the locker room– but you’ve given Billy a reason now, and he’s gonna follow you.

“Shit, are you crying? Those hormones must have you really messed up, huh?” he faux-croons, the thunk-thunk of his poseur motorcycle boots following you to the back entrance, by the sports equipment. Your eyes are streaming freely now, lashes frantically blinking a path to vision.

But Billy isn’t letting up. And like the Pied Piper of slimeballs, he’s drawing followers– not least of which include Tommy Hagan.

“What about that college dropout you’re banging, Lacy?” his nasally tone slices through Billy’s tarry taunting. “He know you’re knocked up yet?”

“Jesus Christ, Doevski! I’m impressed,” Billy laughs, “Just how many loads are you taking?”

An abandoned baseball bat lies on the ground, having rolled out of the sports closet; instinct behind the wheel of your personal van, you stoop to pick it up and shove through the doors. You can nearly feel the breath of Hargrove and Hagan and all of these horrific, horrific boys with nothing better to do than to torture you hot on the back of your neck.

“Not yours, that’s for fucking sure,” you manage, your voice thick. The bat, at least, feels solid in your hand.

“It’s fun not being frigid, ain’t it, Lacy?” Billy goes on, and you squint against the sunlight as you round the building. “Tell me this, Munson teach you how to suck cock yet? ‘cause if not, I got a little time on my hands.”

Forging ahead, you cross the tarmac of the parking lot. The soft frost hasn’t even totally thawed out yet, sparkling atop the paintwork of Billy’s blue Camaro.

“That a fact, Billy?” you say, tears drying in quick streaks in that brisk morning air, leaving rivets in your made-up face.

You use your momentum to launch one foot onto the hood of Billy’s car, then the other. You nearly slip against the icy exterior, but steady yourself fast. Bat dangling at your side. Stomp. Stomp. You stand on the roof, and turn to face this congregation of assholes. You do not let sense set in, despite it threatening to inch through the white hot flame of your rage.

“What the fuck are you doing,” Billy outright cackles and Hagan and company guffaw along with him.

“Billy,” you sigh, a little breathless from the speed at which you’d booked it from the locker room to the parking lot, and the sheer vigor of your shock, awe and rancor, and everything else, “What the hell am I supposed to do with your limp dick in my mouth? Chew on the fuckin’ thing?”

Billy repeats himself, a touch darker now. “What the fuck are you doing.”

“I’m serious!” you say, a little shrill, a little stomp to punctuate that last word, “One thing you can say for Eddie Munson, is at least the motherfucker can get hard!”

Motorcycle boots advance towards you, and you point the bat at him like a broadsword.

“Do not. Come any closer. Or I’m gonna start doing some serious damage to this ugly piece of overcompensation.”

“She’s bluffing,” Hagan crows, and you turn your flaming glare on him. You wish you had a mirror– you wonder if crazy becomes you. Billy takes a pointed step forward and you raise the bat above your, head bracing for action– that’s enough movement for him.

“Gimme that bat, you stupid fucking cunt–!” But Billy’s cut short by a body barrelling into the side of him, knocking him askew. A jangle of denim and leather. The bat slips a little in your grasp.

“Get the fuck off of me Munson–”

“No way to talk to a lady, Billy!” Eddie gasps, tossing Billy back and letting his limbs hang. “You kiss Karen Wheeler with that mouth?”

Billy rounds on him like a triggered animal, spittle flying.

“Some fucking lady!” he snarls, “Got downgraded to that trailer park and now her snooty ass is spreading it for half of Hawkins! Desperate! Stringin’ you along like the dumb piece of shortbus shit you a–”

Activated, you throw that bat to the fucking wayside and scramble off the fucking car– nobody talks to him like that!

But you’re not fast enough, nobody’s fast enough, nobody can compete with how huge and booming and definite Eddie’s voice sounds when he says, smile glimmering, sun breaking through the bleak midwinter…

“You know what I like about you, Hargrove?”

THKUNCK. Bone to bone, fist meet fucking flesh–

“Nothin’.”

A scuffle goes up, and Eddie can’t even feel the hits of Hargrove’s hands connecting with his face, chest, ribs, wherever– all he can feel are your arms locking in vice around his waist, putting yourself in the eye of the storm in order to yank him back.

—

You got an elbow to the crown of the head, which isn’t too bad, even if you feel like a cartoonish lump should be rising there. But look at these other guys.

Billy with a black eye that’s bulging up rapidly, Eddie with a split lip and more than a couple of scratches on his knuckles. In that fray, he hadn’t exactly considered the implications of punching a guy with all his goddamned rings on. The implications being that shit hurt like hell. There is this radiating pain in his hand, not letting him unfurl his fingers completely.

There’s also this radiating feeling of dread cloaking his entire upper half as you sit three-to-the-wall outside Higgins’ office. You had, in Eddie’s estimation, incredibly bad timing.

See, considering the events of his past week, he was slowly making peace with the fact that he should probably be avoiding you entirely, even if that meant he died a little inside. He should have been doing that from the jump– but you, unbuttoned and reckless now apparently, kept requiring interventions so you didn’t get killed, or worse.

And Eddie couldn’t help himself when it came to you. Especially not when you were standing on top of Billy Hargrove’s sick Camaro, swinging a baseball bat and getting called some shit that no one should ever be calling you.

You’re out of control. Totally unsheathed. End of your rope. Unlaced.

And he’d do just about anything to keep you safe.

Even fuck up his guitar-playing hand. Which is also his…

“I can’t believe you fucking suckerpunched me,” Hargrove mumbles from your left. “With those ugly fucking rings on.”

Eddie can’t help himself, the last shred of propriety knocked out round about the time a knee to the ribs had winded him. “Aw. Billy. Don’t be so hard on yourself–”

“Eddie…,” you start, tone warning in a way that makes him want to pinch you, kind of. He leans towards Hargrove, meaning he’s leaning over you. Hair brushing across your shoulder. You notice that it smells distinctively skunkier than usual. Camping out at Lipton Landing?

“--honestly! You’re no sucker!” he implores, eyes shining in jest, “You totally had that coming!”

You hear Billy seething from his end, Eddie snickering from his and launch a well-timed arm in front of both of them before they can snap at it again.

“Cut it out, assholes! This is becoming increasingly more pigheaded.”

“And you’re the voice of perfect reason now, huh?” Eddie sneers, not giving you much breathing room. “Where’s the bat at, Babe Ruth?”

“In the parking lot, waiting to finish you off,” you grit back, nearly nose-to-nose with him, because you don’t know how to digest the guilt of his aching fingers.

“What are you mad at me for?” Eddie hisses, a smirk threatening to break his scowl, because he doesn’t know how not to provoke you.

“Knocking her up, probably,” Billy mumbles from the side.

“Shut up, Hargrove!” you both snap, eyes never leaving one another.

Higgins’ door creaks open and a quietly livid Ms Kelley says, “Lacy.” She jerks her head, motioning for you to up and at ‘em. You do, but not without one last look at Eddie, cradling his hand. Round, bottomless irises meet yours for a moment, then dart away with an impact that thickens your throat.

His poor hand, you find yourself thinking.

“He needs an ice pack…” you find yourself mumbling, Kelley shuffling you into Higgins’ office. The principal sits behind his beat-up desk, fingers steepled. You absently wonder if he’s been campaigning for a new, shinier, possibly more oaken desk because this doesn’t paint the picture of threatening figurehead that he so clearly wants you to tremble under.

You accidentally kick the thing, crossing your legs as you sit. “Sorry.”

“You should be,” Higgins declares. Here we fucking go.

“Permission to state my case?” you attempt. This hadn’t been your first time in the principal’s office; minor classroom infractions, a saccharine we’ll do everything to help that we can after your dad’s arraignment, but this time was certainly the worst.

“Denied,” he shoots you down.

“Permission to submit a plea of temporary insanity, then,” you try, patting at the sore spot on the crown of your head. “You know this doesn’t bode with my track record. You think I climbed on top of Billy Hargrove’s car completely compos mentis? Please.”

A tense silence from Higgins’ and Kelley’s end.

“You saw what Hargrove did, didn’t you? That disgusting prank?”

Again, nada.

“I’m a honor student, for Chrissake!” you exclaim, and Kelley plucks herself from the windowsill behind Higgins’ desk.

“Were an honor student, Ms Doevski,” she corrects. “Your grades have been slipping since– the events of the last couple of months. You’ve dropped cheerleading, you’ve made really puzzling false claims about peer tutoring, you…”

“Yes! Yes, the events of the last couple of months, if by which you mean familial imprisonment, then yes, I’ve been a little distracted!”

Higgins kicks back in his seat just as you hitch forward in yours, too angry to be pleading but too desperate to defy. His turn to mutter here we fucking go.

“I can turn this around,” redirected to Ms Kelley and her ever-sympathetic expression, “I can turn this around.”

“College applications deadlines are within touching distance, Lacy.” She of little faith.

“I know that!” As if your hands aren’t itching every time college guy mentions Ithaca or… wherever the fuck it is he goes. As if that isn’t a crack in the assuredness that you were going to take flight out of this town in a spectacular fashion.

“Ladies– can we dispense with the hysteria and deal with the here and now?” Higgins insists and you and Kelley, despite your opposition, share a look.

World class, this guy. Top of his field, asshole-wise.

“Two week suspension should do it,” he says, jotting something down.

You open your mouth in protest and Kelley quells you– you’re in no position to start bargaining down.

“Technically, she didn’t do anything,” and for good measure, but pressed, “Sir.”

“She climbed on top of that boy’s car with a baseball bat!” Higgins barks; now who’s hysteric?! “She had intent to do harm!”

“It was justified.” You can’t help yourself.

Kelley stares him down, and that woman’s charm is something that should be studied in a fucking lab, because he relents right away.

“Two weeks of Saturday detention, then. Christ. Am I going soft?”

You shake your head, all the knots in your body releasing just a little bit. You try to dig out what’s left of your once-famously refined charm, while simultaneously dashing towards the door before he can change his mind.

“Au contraire. You’re a paragon of masculinity, sir. Regan could take a hint. Door open or closed?”

Higgins grimaces. “Send in Hargrove. Tell Munson he’s suspended. I don’t have time for both of those pricks today.”

Eddie’s voice travels through the crack in the door. “I heard that, sir.” A beat. “I miss you, sir.”

You bite back a deeply reluctant laugh and jerk your head toward Billy. You’re up, champ.

Then, it’s the two of you. You and Eddie, Eddie and you. Alone, save for the ever watchful jam jar eyes of Janice the secretary. Eddie is still nestling one hand in the other like it’s a baby bird with a broken wing. Shit, you really hope it isn’t broken.

“You’re suspended. They told me to tell you.” It’s a statement made to turkey-stuff the silence more than anything.

The way Eddie lolls his head back makes you want to reach out and push it in the opposite direction. You don’t know why.

“You’re a regular town crier, ain’t ya.”

“Hear ye, hear ye.”

A leaden pause. Your hearts might have thumped both in time just now.

“Wanna get out of here?” he asks.

“No leaving school grounds,” Janice unhelpfully squawks.

Eddie gets up, drawing himself to his full height. Your eyelids flutter. There’s a little purple around that cut on his lip, which you bet is starting to throb something awful. You feel dwarfed beside him, and he uses his good hand to turn you by the shoulder and shuffle you past the nosy secretary’s post.

“I meant the sick bay, Janice,” Eddie pelts, giving each vowel sound a hard flick. “I’m wounded. And she’s apparently pregnant. Or didn’t you hear?”

—

The nurse’s office is tiny and cramped, smelling of bleach with a glaring fluorescent overhead. Eddie has a hard time figuring out why anyone would come here to feel better. Especially given that Nurse Lydia is barely ever present.

Eddie carpes the opportunity to slam himself down on her rolling saddle chair, gliding into your path as you try and snoop around for first aid materials.

“I don’t think you should be driving that thing,” you remark, “You could be concussed. You’re acting concussed.”

“It’s keeping me awake!”

Eddie watches you, digging through drawers and pulling out tongue depressors, your teeth making an indent into your bottom lip. Your eyes are doing that darty thing, quietly frantic in place of an apology. You don’t know how to say sorry you got wailed on by Hargrove for me. Instead, you’re acting like he’s bleeding out.

“Lace, just wait for the professional.”

The clip of your nickname makes you toss your stare over your shoulder, hardness framing your eyes like mascaraed lashes. Eddie stops rolling around at once.

“I am the goddamn professional, as far as you’re concerned.” Your little chin jerks towards the exam table that’s beat into the corner of the room. “Get on the bed.”

Whack-a-mole. Woodpecker. Other euphemisms for his cock developing a pulse. Eddie has to physically restrain his jaw from dropping.

“Yes, Nurse Ratched.”

Scoffing out a little fuck you!, you go about scrambling together supplies and Eddie obediently launches himself onto the bed, the ancient thing creaking beneath him. When you finally approach him, you seem to be holding a lot of alcohol pads.

The look before you admit to a shortcoming is one he wants framed. You always flick your eyes around like a guilty cartoon character, like Betty Boop on her way to gaining a doctorate in the pretentiousness of the English language, and pout. Lean your neck in, like you’re swearing him to secrecy.

“I actually don’t know anything about first aid. Beyond the rudimentaries.”

Eddie chuckles. “You were a cheerleader. You were getting thrown in the air a whole bunch, if I recall. Feels like you should know how to like, resuscitate.”

“Rudimentaries, I said!” and you grab his injured hand a little roughly, alcohol pad torn out and ready, “Like, I obviously know alcohol disinfects a wound, ice for a bruise… I don’t know how to, like, reset a bone. Besides…”

You inch closer to him now, wiping at his torn and tender knuckles a little too carefully. They’re just stupid cuts, Eddie thinks, his breath beginning to shallow.

“...that Cat People remake was premiering at the Hawk the day we had first aid training. Like I was going to miss that.”

He can feel heat radiating off your body, a core change for cold little you. Feel the fabric of your skirt brush the rip in his jeans. A little choked, he mumbles, “Cat People is a remake?”

“Based on the 1942 original,” you nod, flicking the tiny used pad in the nearby trash can. “I like it. But I like that David Bowie song more.”

“That song sucks.”

“You’re injured and wrong. What a shame.” Your fingers close around Eddie’s wrist and slowly, slowly press his forearm to his chest. “Keep that elevated.”

“It’s not broken,” and he’s staring at the quiet tremble in your bottom lip.

“Could be sprained,” head cast down again, tearing open another pad, and he can smell your hair, “Does it hurt?”

Eddie doesn’t answer right away, because he’s waiting for you to look back up. Because he thinks he’s going to carpe something else.

You fall for it, and your eyes sucker him in. He feels weak in the joints. You repeat yourself. “Does it hurt, Eddie?”

He just nods, boyishly. Nearly passes out when your fingertips tilt his face towards the light. Skin buzzing underneath them, you peering at his mouth like you know what you’re doing. The slit in his lip feels raw and strained.

“This’ll hurt, too,” you murmur, and he feels your breath against his jaw. A sharp prick from the alcohol against his cut doesn’t make him wince– worse. As you swipe the cotton against his bottom lip, he whimpers. Unh.

Oxygen stops short in your throat, hearing that. That noise. It sends a wave of motion through your lower body. You’re leaning awfully close to him, closer than you need to be. In fact, his knees are settled either side of your hips. How did that happen. When did that happen. How did you allow this.

How are you allowing your fingertip to trace against his lip, alcohol evaporating without a hope or a prayer. How are you allowing yourself to look at him through the fan of your lashes, his injured hand still obediently propped against his chest. His good hand pressing into your lower back.

You taste the vagueness of the disinfectant on his lips as he presses them into yours.

Jerking back, you’re not far enough away from him to create a distance that matters. All you see are Eddie’s eyes, flickering open, apologetic in themselves. About to tell you he’s sorry.

No.

Hands fly, one woven in the curls at the base of his skull as you kiss up into him, tongue an impolite peak. This is not the closet; this is arguably far more dangerous, with the nurse’s door still open a courteous gap. This is the harsh light of day. This is Eddie’s hand moving your skirt further up the curve of your ass.

He’s grabbing onto you as best a one-armed man can, and your hand travels in turn. A jagged, fevered path drawing up his thigh until, under your palm, is the hard outline of him. The pressure of your hand over the denim-bound curvature of his cock makes him groan sharply, the sound pressed against your cheek.

Face angles back for a look at him. Because this is bad, mindless, reckless, stupid. And he’s always worth a look.

You spot a tiny speck of blood on the pink of his lip from where his cut had split.

And your curious tongue flicks at it.

Eddie’s eyes flare. You, unable to unglue your stare from his, suck his lightly bleeding lip between yours. Fragile. Crushable.

He did this for you.

No one’s ever cared, or known you enough, to do something like that for you.

Desire moves you like a shockwave and your hand leaves his crotch to help you clamber onto the exam table, clamber into Eddie’s lap.

Downright idiotic.

You cast a glance to the door, Eddie’s fraught breath puffing against your neck.

Thought you were a smart girl.

You look right into his face, the poster boy for sheer distraction, pre-occupation, skin-searing annoyance, nervous charm, surprising wit, magnetism, oh my… and feel his fingers edging far past the hem of your skirt, past the binding top of the thigh-highs you’re wearing because it’s fucking laundry day and stopping at the gusset of your panties.

He can feel how wet you are.

Lips a breath away from each other, one set bleeding, one set housing a gasp. Eddie nudges his forehead against yours, the both of you blind to consequence.

“Just friends, right?” His breath is jagged and unconvinced, and your hips kick toward his hand.

You do not answer.

Unbruised fingers push the fabric covering your radiating heat aside and you have to tighten your grip around the back of his neck so as not to tumble over. Eddie is not deft, because this isn’t the moment to be deft. He plunges two fingers into the plush of your pussy and looks to you with pleading eyes. Eyes that say, is this good, eyes that say, don’t make a sound.

You nod in the affirmative to both and he drags his digits out slowly. Rhythm picks up and you’re clenching around Eddie’s hand in a matter of minutes, lower muscles seizing and het-up moans being gratefully swallowed by him. Pad of his thumb moves to create rough, clumsy friction against your clit that elicits a sharp, high, wanton ah! from you, grinding against him in an unquenchable search for more.

“Does he do this? Does anyone do this for you, Lacy?”

Eddie’s eyes keep searching you for approval and you’ve lost the ability to appease or deny him– all you know is the blind, nonsensical want that’s pouring out of you is being lapped up. Lapped up. His tongue, you want his tongue everywhere, but it’s working at your earlobe, your neck, sucking, whispering, “Just friends? Lacy?”

And when you cum, it’s fast and hard and suffocating, an achievement you’re close to angry at him for– because no one has ever been able to break you apart that fast.

Or at all.

He can never know. He’d be so insufferable about it… some bare fragment of a thought passes through your brain, synapses busy firing elsewhere.

You’re rocking against him through the crest, pressing your forehead to his with such a force that you’re frightened it’ll splinter, you’re murmuring, “Eddie… Eddie, d–hmn, fuck…”

And you can tell by the way he’s attempting to press his body against you that he wishes he hadn’t bust that stupid fucking hand of his, so he could hold you properly– and you’re right. You’re right, you’re always fucking right, but you told him to keep it elevated and he’s going to do what you say.

He’s got no choice when it comes to you.

He needs you safe. Needs you happy. No matter what.

Which is why he’s got to pull this bullshit move.

Eddie is patient and watches you regain a little consciousness, faster than he’s sure you’d like. He extracts his hand and, sticky with you still, wipes it on the thigh of his jeans. Heart thundering in his ears, he tugs you into one more breathless kiss and wonders if you can still taste the rust sharpness of his cut in between your lips. He’s strangled himself against cumming up till this point, and this doesn’t help matters. An imperceptible spot of pre-fun lies in his lap but the thing is, the really fucked thing is–

Eddie gently shoves you away, mind silently babbling for the right thing to say. I’m sorry is something you’d see right through, get off is too harsh, oopsie is too fucking whimsical–

But you, ever-perceptive you, you realize your place. Knock yourself back into reality so fiercely that he’s afraid it’ll bruise you, lovely, awe-inspiring you that just softened into his hands like that. You clumsily clamber off the exam table in a hot flash of rejection, which– no, god, no, he doesn’t mean that…

“I–”

“No, I know,” you grit, prickly all over. Thumbing at the edge of your blurred lipstick. “I know. I certainly know.”

Eddie dares to look at you and you dare to look back at him. His lips looking worse off from you, but at the very least kissed. At the very least kissed, but you could cry with the empty feeling inside you. A cavern of a girl. You nod curtly, like this is the conclusion of a particularly charged run-in of acquaintances, not like you wanted him to swallow you whole moments ago.

Slipping out of the nurse’s office, you run right into the myth that is Nurse Lydia.

She looks tan.

“He’s,” you struggle, “He’s waiting for you.”

—

Cheating out sick from school and taking a shift at The Bookstore following the latest in a series of apparently neverending aftershocks was probably not the smartest call– but hell, you’re fresh out of smart calls.

Ivana smells a rat, and she doesn’t take to rats lightly, so she gives you your space.

The morning ticks on at a pace that feels supernatural; like you’re witnessing outside of your body, like you can’t orient yourself in the right direction. You attempt to arrange and rearrange poets from alcoholic to puritan. You sell someone a copy of The Fountainhead without giving them their free blistering evisceration of Ayn Rand.

You’re at a loss. A shameful, dangling loss that almost makes you feel pious. Like you should go to confession.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned… I let my one-time best friend, current-cloudy object of my affection get beat up for me then bring me to climax in the nurses’ office.

You retread the same sentence in your over-thumbed copy of Save Me the Waltz like a table corner you keep stubbing your toe on.

We couldn’t go on indefinitely being swept off our feet.

You said it, Alabama. Something’s got to land.

And, because someone down there wants you dead, land it does.

The bell of the store’s door clashes upon opening, and all of the energy draws toward one magnetic point. A shock of silver hair, standing on end catches the lamplight, glowing almost eerily.

You feel a zzzzip of static. The air feels charged.

He doesn’t face you right away. Kind of slinks into the place, edging along the shelves.

“Say, Lacy. Ballpark me somethin’,” his Southern drawl is barely contained within the Midwestern flatlands of his accent, bursting through the baseline like a corpse that hasn’t been buried deep enough. “How long… do you think…” His fingers tap along the worn spines of the display, creeping closer to the counter, “...it would take… to read all these books?”

The lilt of his voice is so familiar that you recognize it instantly. Even the way your name falls out of his mouth. Like a funhouse mirror, a distortion of a voice you’d come to…

Well. Let’s not get into that. Let’s get into this.

A roguish smile with a couple decades of road wear on it and a tacky Hawkins High class ring on his finger. You could’ve sworn Eddie told you he dropped out.

“How many years in the big house with nothin’ better to do?” He finally stops and pivots on his heel. The way he looks you over makes you nauseous and lightheaded, like he took a long, long sip out of you. Jammed a straw in your jugular and sucked.

Lot of blood play happening ‘round these parts.

“Hello, Al.”

“Hello, sweetheart. You filled out.”

author's notes: christ alive. i mean WELCOME BACK! i really missed you guys. happy new year, thank you for keeping me on the level with writing this chapter, it was so much FUCKING harder than i anticipated! was it too much warped angst? are the feelings complicated? does the pope shit in the woods?!!!!! you betcha. anyway, be seated for today's lesson - "less oedipus-y, more ea--..." there is an ending to that joke that i felt was too crass for the moment but if you can guess it you win a prize - the patchwork girl of oz is the seventh book in the wizard of oz series by l. frank baum! obviously. it's actually a laugh riot, you should check it out. scraps, the eponymous patchwork girl, is a full tilt lunatic who's kind of a bit of me. but theoretically, the patchwork girl made out of a thousand different scraps of everything else... bit of lacy innit - the mage in the mink coat is self referential lmao we've gotten to THAT point in the story - gravity's rainbow is a book that guys i dated used to recommend to me constantly which is like infinite jest for people who are ran through - i'm really fucking with college guy at this point, making him drive a ford cortina. because i think it is ugly - the plot of the annotated book that lacy gives eddie, still life with woodpecker by tom robbins, is... interesting eye emoji eye emoji. tom robbins also wrote even cowgirls get the blues which was adapted into a feature film starring, say it with me, robin's mom - the link wray song that soundtracked the lipton landing visit in question - "charlie? or linda kasabian?" go ahead and read the white album by joan didion for me wouldja buddyroo, just like lacy and nancy already have - fun fact, i played a two person game of gin rummy with myself to get into the mindset for this chapter. i suck at it - torchy blane is another one of my pre-code wonders-- glenda farrell plays an intrepid newspaperwoman, and this character actually went on to inspire lois lane from superman - and I KNOW some of you are going to be mad at lacy for fucking college guy, but... shit happens when you're a booksmart lovedumb eighteen year old that can't face up to her feelings! i don't wanna hear it! - fred benson i love you baby! i'm almost sorry i called you william randolph hearst, newspaper magnate and all around lunatic and the inspo behind the diss track citizen kane, but i'm not! - nancy wheeler has a photo of nellie bly in her locker where a photo of her beau should be - so echo & the bunnymen's 1984 album ocean rain is obviously most famous for the killing moon (jonathan byers you ARE my donnie darko) but may i point your attention to motherfucking seven seas - OH YOU KNOW I (EDDIE) HAD TO DO IT TO 'EM. this was shameless but i've had this in my heart for over ten years babe - for the purposes of this timeline, you know eddie is keeping higgins in pills. which is why he hasn't been kicked out of hawkins high so fast his lunchbox would combust - nurse ratched, obviously from one flew over the cuckoo's nest and that ill-fated ryan murphy series....tf was that...but also from this fucking sick tune! - save me the waltz is by zelda fitzgerald! my loves, thanks for hanging in for this chapter. i know it was a wait, but i hope you enjoyed! i also know it was a little more angsty pants than my usual fare-- but look baby. we need grist for the mill, okay? as always, reblogs, comments and likes are FIERCELY appreciated! love u all so much. my little hellcats. to die by your side etc

#e. munson by powder #published by powder #in progress #hellfire & ice #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x oc #rmr when i used to write 4k chapters.... god be with the days #anyway i love these fuckheads

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